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7JV  PRESS. 

By  the  Author  of  this  volume, 

OUT   IN   THE   WORLD. 

Price.  SI. 26. 


LIGHT  ON  SHADOWED  PATHS. 


BY 


T.  S.  ARTHUR. 

Author  of  "  Ten  Nights  in  a  Bar  Room,"  "  Steps  towards  Heaven," 
"  What  Can  Woman  Do,"  "  Golden  Grains,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK  : 

CARLETOJV,  PUBLISHER,  413  BROADWAY. 
MDCCCLXIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

GEO.   W.    CARLETON\ 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York 


LSH 


Wfr/Aj 
CONTENTS. 

I.   IF   I   COULD   KNOW.                            ...  7 

II.    BLUE    SKY    SOMEWHEEE 17 

III.  LIGHT   IN    THE    EVENING.  ...         26 

IV.  HE    GIVETH    HIS   BELOVED    SLEEP.  .  .    35 
V.    IT   IS    WELL   WITH    THEM.              ...         40 

VI.   IF   I   HAD    KNOWN    OF    THIS.  .  .  .48 

VII.    HE    CAME    IN   MEECY 58 

VIII.    ONE   DAY   AT   A   TIME.  ...  .  .71 

IX.    THE    ANGEL-SISTEE.  ....         82 

X.    OUE   DAILY    BEEAD.         .  ...    93 

XI.    ALWAYS   IN    SUNSHINE 101 

XII.    MRS.  GOLDSMITH    AT   FOETY.  .  .  112 

XIII.  A   DAY'S    EXPERIENCE 123 

XIV.  JUST   BEYOND 133 

XV.    MORE    BLESSED    TO    GIVE.  .  .  .142 

XVI.    THE    HELPING    HAND.      .  148 

XVII.    COMING   DOWN. 157 

XVIII.  THE  POET'S  LESSON 173 

M119132 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

XIX.    UP   HIGHER 185 

XX.    WAS    IT    A    MISFORTUNE  ?         .  .  .  197 

XXI.  THE  DEACON'S  DREAM 206 

XXII.    WOULD    YOU   HAVE    IT    OTHERWISE?        .  216 

XXIII.  IN    THE    HEREAFTER 226 

XXIV.  SHE    WENT    AWAY    WITH    THE    ANGELS.  242 
XXV.    THE   WINE    OF   LIFE 248 

XXVI.    A   POOR    SERMON,  AND    WHY.  .  .  255 

XXVII.    OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE    USURER.         .  .  .  271 

XXVIII.    A    SPUR   IN   THE    SIDE.  .  .  .  284 

XXIX.    A   NEW   WORK   AND    A   NEW    LIFE.      .  .  295 

XXX.    CARE-WORN.  '.  V;          .  .  .  310 

XXXI.    SERVICE,  NOT    LOVE.  .  .  ,  .  325 

XXXII.    A   RIFT    IN    THE    CLOUD.  »  .  .  334 

XXXIII.    SABLES.      •  »  -  .  341 


LIGHT  ON  SHADOWED  PATHS, 


i. 


IF  I  COULD  KNOW. 


ERMANN  leaned  back  wearily  from  his 
study  table,  sighed,  and  sat  in  reverie 
for  a  long  time. 

"  If  I  could  only  know  that  fruit 
would  come  of  all  this  thought  and  ef 
fort,"  he  said,  breaking  at  length  into 
the  pause  with  speech.  "  If  I  could 
only  know  that  the  seed  I  am  trying  to 
scatter  would  fall  into  good  ground." 

He  was  silent  again.  Then  a  page  in  his  Book  of 
Memory  was  turned  by  an  unseen  hand,  and  he  read 
from  it  this  passage  :  "In  the  morning  sow  thy  seed, 
and  in  the  evening  withhold  not  thine  hand ;  for  thou 
knowest  not  whether  will  prosper,  either  this  or  that,  or 
whether  they  both  shall  be  alike  good." 

He  sighed  once  more,  but  the  sigh  was  fainter.  Then 
he  bent  to  his  work,  writing  slowly  and  with  an  intent- 


KNOW. 


ness  of  thought  that  crowded  the  blood  on  his  brain. 
These,  among  other  sentences,  came  into  existence  : 

"  Of  what  did  she  die  ?  The  physician's  certificate 
has  it  4  congestion  of  the  brain.'  But  there  be  those 
who  know  better  —  those  who,  living  in  closer  proxim 
ity,  understand  the  case  differently.  Was  the  physician 
deceived  ?  Possibly.  Nay,  certainly,  for  all  his  post 
mortem  examination.  True,  there  was  congestion  of 
the  brain,  which,  morbidly  excited,  took  blood  faster 
than  it  was  able  to  use  and  return  it  ;  and  this  was  the 
proximate"  cause  of  death  —  enough  for  the  profession  ; 
but  the  real  cause  lay  far  away  behind  that,  unrevealed 
to  the  eye  of  science.  Of  what,  then,  did  she  die  ? 
Simply  of  starvation  !  Nay,  do  not  look  incredulous, 
nor  reject  the  assertion.  It  is  true  —  sadly,  sorrowfully 
true  !  She  died,  as  thousands  die  daily  around  us,  of 
starvation. 

"  You  reject  this,  and  with  indignation.  You  knew 
her  socially  and  intimately,  were  with  her  frequently 
during  her  last  illness,  and  know  that  she  took  food 
daily,  and  in  sufficient  quantities  to  sustain  life.  But, 
for  all  this,  our  sweet  friend  died  of  starvation.  There 
are  those  who  live  not  by  bread  alone,  who  must  have 
heart  food  or  they  can  not  live.  Why  are  the  cheeks 
of  so  many  wives  pale  and  wasted  ?  The  family  physi 
cian,  at  fault,  will  look  serious,  and  hint  at  organic  de- 


IP  I   COULD   KNOW.  9 

rangement.  He  will  recommend  change  of  scene,  ex 
ercise  in  the  open  air,  more  nutritious  food  —  all  merely 
professional,  and  not  touching  the  case.  If  he  could 
prescribe  love  ! 

"  I  saw,  long  ago,  that  she  was  failing.  At  first  there 
crept  over  her  pure  face  the  thinnest  veil  of  shadows. 
Something  dreamy  and  pensive  came  into  her  eyes. 
She  had  a  strange,  earnest  way  of  looking  at  her  hus 
band  —  tender,  loving,  but  questioning.  If  she  sat  near 
him,  or  stood  by  his  side,  she  leaned  a  little,  as  if  drawn 
by  an  invisible  attraction.  I  noticed,  on  his  part,  a  cold 
irresponsive  manner  —  a  self-conciousness  that  held  him 
away  from  all  just  perception  of  her  states  of  feeling. 
His  thoughts  were  busy  in  a  world  where  she  was  not 
present.  All  the  while  she  was  asking  for  love,  and 
looking  for  its  signs  in  tenderly  spoken  words,  in  fond 
caresses,  in  kisses  not  coldly  given,  but  burning  with 
heart-fires.  All  the  while  she  was  hungering,  and  he 
kept  back  the  full  supply  of  food. 

u  Was  he  enstranged  from  her  ?  Had  love  already 
died  ?  Had  she  failed  to  reach  his  ideal  of  a  wife  ? 
Not  so.  He  loved  her  —  as  such  self-absorbed  men  love 
their  wives  ;  was  proud  of  her ;  looked  into  no  woman's 
face  and  thought  it  sweeter  than  hers.  She  was  mak 
ing  all  his  life  pleasant,  and  he  felt  and  acknowledged  it 

with  himself.      But  he  was  undemonstrative,  as   they 
1* 


10  IF   I   COULD   KNOW. 

say  —  did  not  express  what  he  felt.  Ah,  that  word  un 
demonstrative,  how  often  is  it  made  to  excuse  mere  in 
difference,  or  downright  cold-heartedness  !  In  fact,  he 
was  not  worthy  of  such  a  wife,  for  he  could  not  com 
prehend  her  nature,  or,  it  may  be,  would  not  so  rise  out 
of  his  mere  selfishness  as  to  get  a  clearer  vision.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  he  starved  her  by  withholding  the  food 
her  spirit  craved  with  a  never-dying  hunger ;  and  she 
paled  and  faded  in  his  sight,  wasting  to  ghostliness,  and 
receding,  until  she  passed  the  vale  through  which  none 
return  —  passed,  as  many  wives  pass,  year  by  year, 
killed  by  the  same  disease. 

"  O  man,  consider  and  be  wise,  ere  the  days  of  dark 
ness  come,  when  it  will  be  too  late !  Is  there  a  pale 
face  in  your  home  ?  Do  loving  eyes  look  at  you  in  wist 
ful  sadness  from  sunken  orbits  ?  Are  you  in  daily  fear 
that  a  blast  falling  down  suddenly  will  sweep  to  the 
other  side  the  spirit-like  form  which,  once  absent  from 
your  dwelling,  will  leave  all  its  chambers  desolate  ?  So 
far  the  physician  has  failed.  Medicine  does  not  reach 
the  disease.  Sea-bathing,  mountain  air,  mineral  springs 

—  all  have  been  tried,  and  still  the  white  face  grows 
whiter,  the  shrinking  form  more  and  more  attenuate,  the 
eyes  sadder,  the  spirits  more  depressed.    You  have  done 
and  are  still  doing  all  in  human  power  to  save  her.     No 

—  something  yet  remains  !    Try  loving  words  and  deeds. 


IF   I   COULD   KNOW.  11 

Lay  your  hand,  as  of  old,  tenderly  on  her  head,  smooth 
the  hair  with  soft  caresses ;  look  down,  with  the  look 
that  blessed  her  years  ago,  into  her  dimming  eyes,  and 
let  them  take  a  new  lustre  from  your  own ;  tell  her  that 
you  love  her,  for  this  will  do  her  good ;  she  is  hunger 
ing  for  the  words  —  has  hungered  for  them,  oh  so  long 
and  so  wearily  !  until  faint  with  waiting.  Give  her  the 
food  for  lack  of  which  she  has  been  dying  daily  for 
years.  O  man !  again  I  say  be  wise,  ere  the  days  of 
darkness  come,  when  it  will  be  too  late." 

Hermann  paused,  laid  down  his  pen,  and  leaned  back 
from  the  table. 

"  If  I  could  have  said  all  that  was  in  my  thought ; 
but  language  is  so  inadequate  !  The  ideas  that  throng 
my  mind  lose  half  their  clearness  when  I  attempt  to  ex 
press  them.  Ah,  if  I  knew  that  even  this  poor  work 
would  not  die  —  that  it  would  save  one  life  failing  for 
lack  of  love." 

Another  leaf  in  his  Book  of  Memory  was  turned  by 
an  unseen  hand,  and  on  it  was  written :  "  Cast  thy  bread 
upon  the  waters  ;  for  thou  shalt  find  it  after  many  days." 

"  Let  it  go  forth,"  he  said,  in  a  more  cheerful  voice, 
rising  from  the  table.  "  If  the  seed  is  good  it  will  fall 
into  good  ground  somewhere.  Man  soweth,  but  with 
God  is  the  increase." 

It  went  forth  ;  and,  like  all  good  seed  cast  from  the 


12  IF  I   COULD   KNOW. 

sower's  hand,  fell  by  the  wayside,  on  stony  places, 
among  thorns,  and  also  into  good  ground.  God  knew 
of  the  increase,  if  Hermann  did  not.  It  was  a  part  of 
his  discipline  to  have  faith  and  patience. 

A  month  or  a  year  have  passed.  It  matters  not. 
Truth  never  dies ;  never  loses  its  vitalizing  force.  Sit 
ting  alone,  with  a  troubled  countenance,  was  a  man 
scarcely  yet  touching  the  meridian  of  life.  A  period 
ical  which  had  engaged  his  attention  lay  half-closed  on 
the  table  beside  him.  The  trouble  in  his  face  was 
mingled  with  surprise,  as  though  he  had  just  received  a 
painful  revelation. 

"  Starved  to  death !  "  There  was  a  shiver  in  his 
voice.  "  Is  that  indeed  possible  ?  " 

Even  as  he  said  this,  the  door  opened  and  a  woman 
came  in,  with  almost  noiseless  feet  gliding  slowly  across 
the  apartment.  Her  face  had  the  exhaustion  and  pallor 
that  long  sickness  leaves  behind,  and  was  veiled  by  a 
touching  sadness.  She  did  not  look  toward  the  man 
but  his  eyes  followed  her  as  she  moved  about  the  room 
with  an  expression  of  deep  and  yearning  interest.  Af 
ter  obtaining  what  she  sought,  the  woman  —  still  with 
out  seeming  to  be  conscious  of  the  man's  presence  — 
retired  to  the  door  through  which  she  had  entered,  and 
was  passing  out,  when  the  man,  speaking  with  suppress 
ed  feeling,  said, 


IP    I    COULD    KNOW.  13 

"  Florence !  " 

There  was  evidence  of  surprise  in  the  woman's  man 
ner  as  she  paused  and  half-turned  herself,  now  for  the 
first  time  looking  at  him. 

"  Florence,  you  are  very  pale  to-night."  The  voice 
was  not  steady. 

What  a  strange,  startled  look  came  into  the  woman's 
face  ! 

"  Come  !  "  He  spoke  tenderly,  and  held  forth  one 
hand  in  invitation.  "  Come,  dear  !  " 

The  woman  moved  away  from  the  door,  crossing  the 
room  toward  him,  her  eyes  fixed  searchingly  on  his 
countenance.  There  was  a  shade  of  doubt  in  her  man 
ner. 

"  Sit  down."  He  moved  a  chair  close  to  the  one  he 
occupied,  but  a  little  in  front,  so  that  he  could  look  at 
her  directly,  and,  taking  her  hand  as  she  approached, 
drew  her  down  into  it.  Still  holding  her  hand  after  she 
was  seated,  and  still  gazing  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  in 
terest,  he  said : 

"  Are  you  not  so  well  to-night,  Florence  ?  You  look 
unusually  pale." 

Her  cheeks  found,  on  the  instant,  unwonted  color. 
Her  eyes  shone  with  the  flushing  of  tears.  There  was 
a  motion  of  her  lips,  but  no  words  parted  them. 

"  It  hurts  me,  darling,  to  see  you  drooping  about  in 


14  IF  I   COULD   KNOW. 

this  sad,  weary  way.  Can  nothing  be  done?  Have 
you  pain  to  night  ?  " 

The  tenderness  of  voice  was  genuine.  The  man's 
heart  was  stirring  from  a  long,  doll  sleep  —  and  it  was 
time. 

"  I  have  no  pain."  She  bent  forward  quickly  and 
hid  her  face  against  him,  catching  her  breath  and  hold 
ing  back  a  sob  that  was  leaping  past  her  throat. 

With  a  touch  that  sent  a  thrill  of  joy  along  every 
awakening  nerve,  the  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head, 
smoothing  back  the  hair  with  soft  caresses,  then  stoop 
ing  over,  he  kissed  her. 

"  What  does  this  mean,  Harvey  ?  "  The  woman 
lifted  herself  all  trembling,  and  drawing  back,  looked 
in  a  wild,  eager  way  into  her  husband's  face. 

"  What  can  it  mean,  Florence,  but  love  ?  Are  you 
not  my  pure,  true-hearted  wife  ?  Oh  that  I  could  bring 
back  the  old  light  to  your  eyes,  the  old  health  to  your 
cheeks,  the  old  gladness  to  your  heart !  What  can  I  do, 
Florence  ?  " 

"  Love  me  as  of  old,"  she  answered,  passionately, 
flinging  herself  on  his  bosom.  "  Oh,  my  husband  !  I 
am  starving  for  lack  of  love." 

"  Not  starving,  Florence  !  Oh,  my  wife  !  how  can 
you  say  this  when  you  are  the  most  precious  thing  I 
have  in  this  world  ?  When  the  fear  of  losing  you  for 
ever  haunts  me  day  and  night  ?  " 


IF  I   COULD   KNOW.  15 

She  raised  herself  again.  As  her  face  became  visible 
her  husband  saw  that  it  was  almost  radiant.  The  lost 
sweetness  and  beauty  were  restored. 

"  Am  I  awake  or  dreaming  ?  "  she  said. 

"  You  are  awake,  dear  —  wide  awake,  after  a  long 
nightmare,"  was  answered. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  sleep  again."     Her  voice  fell. 

"  Not  if  in  my  power  to  hold  you  away  from  enchant 
ed  ground.  I  may  have  seemed  cold  on  the  outside, 
Florence,  but  my  heart  was  warm.  It  carries  no  image 
but  yours.  Trust  me,  for  the  future." 

u  Our  lives,  Harvey,  touch  the  outside  of  things," 
she  answered;  "and  if  that  be  cold,  how  can  we  help 
feeling  the  chill  ?  If  there  is  no  tenderness  in  the  eyes 
and  voice,  if  loving  speech  is  withheld,  how  can  we  be 
sure  that  love  is  in  the  heart  ?  There  may  be  rain 
enough  in  the  clouds,  but  if  it  fall  not  on  the  thirsty 
flowers  they  will  perish.  Don't  forget  this,  Harvey  ; 
and  if  you  love  me  say  the  sweet  words  often,  that  my 
soul  may  have  assurances  and  joy." 

If  Hermann  could  have  looked  on  this  scene  he  would 
have  known  what  kind  of  harvests  ripened  from  seed 
he  was  scattering  —  in  doubt  and  hope  —  broadcast 
among  the  people,  wearied  often,  and  sometimes  faint 
ing.  But  he  could  not  know.  And  it  was  as  well. 
Self-discipline  and  strife  with  doubt  were  needed  for 


16 


IF  I   COULD   KNOW. 


the  perfecting  of  his  life.  The  unrest,  born  of  vague 
questionings  as  to  use  and  duty,  gave  vitality  to  thought, 
quickened  his  mind  for  higher  efforts,  and  held  him  to 
work  that  needed  to  be  done.  And  it  was  a  good  work 
if  such  fruit  as  we  have  seen  crowned  many  of  its  har 
vests.  Faint  not,  Hermann  !  "  In  the  morning  sow 
thy  seed,  and  in  the  evening  withhold  not  thy  hand ; 
for  thou  knowest  not  whether  will  prosper,  either  this 
or  that,  or  whether  they  both  shall  be  alike  good." 


BLUE   SKY   SOMEWHERE. 


IT 


II. 


BLUE  SKY  SOMEWHERE. 

T  was  the  remark  of  a  child,  consoling 
himself  for  the  loss  of  a  promised  pleas 
ure  on  a  rainy  afternoon,  that  there  was 
"  blue  sky  somewhere."  And  the  sap 
phire  heavens,  flooded  with  sunshine,  on 
the  next  day  made  his  faith  a  verity. 

The  lesson  is  for  you,  and  for  all  of  us, 
reader ;  and  we  need  it  quite  as  much  as 
the  boy  who  sat  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow  upon  a  leaden  sky  and  the  fast-falling  rain,  and 
trying  to  find  comfort  in  the  thought  that,  far  above  the 
cloud  and  storm,  the  sun  was  shining  in  his  undimmed 
splendor. 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall,"  says  the  poet- 
teacher  ;  and  in  the  days  that  come  "  dark  and  dreary  " 
we  are  apt  to  feel,  in  spite  of  experience  and  reason, 
that  the  brightness  has  passed  from  our  lives  forever. 
But  it  is  not  so.  Like  travelers  we  rise,  now  upon 


18  BLUE   SKY  SOMEWHERE. 

mountain  heights,  and  now  descend  into  deeply  shaded 
valleys  ;  pass  through  open  savannas,  down  upon  which 
the  golden  sunbeams  fall ;  and  anon  are  buried  in  dense 
forests,  that  seem  stretching  their  interminable  vistas  to 
the  very  end  of  our  journey.  We  encounter  all  aspects 
of  the  heavens ;  have  our  mornings,  our  noondays,  our 
evenings,  and  our  nights  with  only  the  stars  for  guid 
ance  ;  our  wild,  contending  storms,  and  our  sunny, 
tranquil  atmospheres.  Has  it  not  been  so  with  you, 
reader  ?  And  yet,  when  the  sun  goes  down,  or  hides 
his  face  in  mantling  clouds,  does  not  your  heart  grow 
faint,  and  your  faith  in  "  blue  sky  somewhere  "  become 
feeble  as  the  rays  of  an  expiring  lamp  ?  The  very 
children  are  our  teachers  ! 

Between  our  inner  and  our  outer  worlds  there  is 
something  more  than  simple  analogy  ;  the  relation  bears 
the  higher  one  of  correspondence,  even  to  minutest 
things  ;  so  that  nature,  with  all  its  infinite  varieties  of 
aspects  and  changes,  representing  interior  aspects  and 
changes,  becomes  our  instructor.  Our  true  poets  rise 
into  a  perception  of  this,  and  give  us  lessons  of  wisdom 
that  sink  deeply  into  the  heart,  and  become  to  us  as 
lights  in  dim  places,  strength  in  weariness,  and  confi 
dence  in  last  results  when  the  mind  is  trembling  in 
doubt  and  fear.  Not  mere  words  in  rhythmic  order  are 
the  poet's,  when  he  says  : 


BLUE  SKY   SOMEWHERE.  19 

"  Be  still,  sad  heart  !  and  cease  repining  ; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining  ; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 

"  If  I»could  only  believe  that  the  clouds  would  pass 
away  —  that  sunny  days  would  come  again  —  I  might 
weep  less,"  was  the  language  of  one  who  sat  in  the 
darkness  of  sorrow  and  disappointment,  as  a  friend  and 
consoler  offered  her  the  poet's  lesson,  that  she  might 
take  it  into  her  heart.  "  But  I  can  see  no  rift  in  the 
clouds ;  no  line  of  light  along  the  dark  horizon ;  no 
abatement  of  the  fast-falling  rain." 

44  We  are  sure  that  the  rain  will  cease  ;  that  behind 
the  clouds  the  sun  is  shining.  We  have  the  fullest  con 
fidence  in  returning  sunbeams ;  and  why  ?  Because 
we  know  that  clouds  are  merely  earthly  exhalations ; 
that  they  do  not  rise  high  in  the  heavens  —  that  they 
can  never  reach  the  sun,  whose  beams  shine  ever  on 
with  undiminished  splendor,  and  have  power  to  disperse 
the  densest  vapors  that  ever  drew  their  curtains  before 
his  radiant  face.  Now  the  world  of  mind,  like  the  world 
of  nature,  has  its  sun,  as  the  poet  has  so  beautifully 
intimated.  Thought  sees  by  its  light,  and  the  heart  is 
refreshed  and  beautified  with  flowers  and  verdure  by  its 
warmth.  But  at  times  this  sun  is  hidden  by  clouds, 
and  there  are  shadows  in  the  mind  and  rain  upon  the 


20  BLUE   SKY   SOMEWHERE. 

heart.    The  days  are  dark  and  dreary.    Why  ?    Whence 
are  these  clouds  ?     Let  visible  things  become  our  teach 


ers." 


The  countenance  of  the  listener  grew  attentive,  and 
the  friend  went  on  : 

"  They  go  up  from  the  natural  earth,  as  clouds  go  up 
from  the  earth  of  our  minds ;  and  even  while  we  sit  in 
sorrow  for  the  beams  that  have  faded  from  our  paths, 
the  sun  is  dissolving  these  clouds  in  rain  for  refreshment 
and  fruitful  ness.  Our  hearts  are  watered  in  the  days 
of  sorrow,  that  they  may  bear  good  fruit  when  the  sun 
shine  comes  again." 

"  If  it  ever  comes."  The  despondent  soul  could  not 
look  beyond  the  clouds. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  Mrs.  Elford's  trouble  ?  "  asked 
the  friend. 

"No."  There  was  a  quick  flash  of  interest  in  the 
mournful  face.  "  What  of  her  ?  " 

"  Her  husband  is  dead." 

"  Oh  no  !  "  The  lady  clasped  her  hands  in  sudden 
surprise  and  pain  at  this  intelligence. 

u  The  news  came  yesterday.  He  died  on  the  Pacific 
coast." 

"  Captain  Elford?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh  dear !  that  is  trouble  !  And  he  has  left  her 
poor,  without  doubt." 


BLUE    SKY    SOMEWHERE.  21 

"  I  fear  as  much." 

44  Have  you  seen  her  ?  " 

44  Yes,  I  called  this  morning." 

"How  is  she?" 

44  Entirely  prostrated  by  the  blow." 

44  Poor  Margaret !  "  The  tone  of  sympathy  was 
genuine.  4t  I  must  go  to  her  in  this  affliction.  I  must 
try  to  speak  some  word  of  comfort." 

44  She  needs  all  the  support  her  friends  can  give.  It 
is  her  hour  of  darkness,  and  she  is  sorrowing  as  one 
without  hope.  The  sun  has  withdrawn  himself  behind 
thick  clouds,  which  are  pouring  down  heavy  rain  upon 
her  life.  Yes,  go  to  her  by  all  means,  and  tell  her  that, 
though  her  sky  is  dark  to-day,  and  filled  with  cloud 
and  storm,  that  the  sun  of  God's  love  is  still  shining  as 
brightly  as  ever,  and  will,  in  the  good  time  of  Him  who 
is  all-merciful,  send  down  his  beams  upon  her  heart 
again." 

It  was  an  old  and  dear  friend  who  had  passed  under 
the  cloud  of  sorrow,  and  the  doubting  and  despondent 
one,  already  half-forgetting  her  own  pain,  was  ponder 
ing  over  words  of  consolation. 

44  God  is  really  nearer  to  us  in  affliction,"  she  said, 
as  she  sat  holding  the  nerveless  hand  of  Mrs.  Elford, 
"  than  at  any  other  time,  though  He  may  seem  farthest 
off;  for  His  infinite,  divine  pity,  is  moved  with  the  ten- 


22  BLUE    SKY   SOMEWHERE. 

derest  compassion  for  the  griefs  of  His  children. 
Though  His  face  may  be  hidden  from  us,  it  is  not  the 
less  a  smiling  face." 

A  sob  and  a  long  tremulous  sigh  were  the  only  an 
swer. 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary." 

Yet  no  response  came.  The  words  of  the  comforter 
seemed  as  if  spoken  to  shut  ears.  Not  so,  however. 
They  entered,  and  like  seed  when  first  cast  into  the 
ground,  gave  no  life-sign  of  their  presence.  But  mem 
ory  held  them  for  the  time  of  fructification. 

And  now  it  happened  to  the  despondent  and  griev 
ing  one,  who  had  refused  to  be  comforted,  yet  tried  to 
speak  in  consolation  to  another  heart,  that  light  seemed 
to  come  around  her.  She  did  not  see  the  sun,  nor  even 
a  rift  in  the  clouds  with  azure  in  the  far  distance.  But 
it  was  not  so  dark  in  the  chambers  of  her  soul.  The 
pressure  on  her  spirit  that  seemed  at  one  time  as  if  it 
would  close  her  life  in  suffocation,  was  not  so  great. 
She  could  breathe  deeper,  and  with  even  a  sense  of  re 
lief  and  satisfaction. 

"  My  poor  friend !  "  she  said,  many  times,  as  she 
thought  of  Mrs.  Elford.  And  as  her  desire  to  bring 
relief  to  another  heart  grew  stronger  and  stronger,  her 
own  consciousness  of  suffering  diminished.  In  the  mag 
nitude  of  another's  sorrow,  hers  seemed  to  grow  less. 


BLUE    SKY    SOMEWHERE.  2& 

Almost  daily  she  visited  her  afflicted  friend,  into 
whose  sad  face  a  little  light  would  come  on  her  appear 
ance  ;  and  though  it  faded  instantly,  the  sign  of  pleasure 
at  seeing  a  welcome  countenance  was  too  palpable  for 
any  mistake  as  to  its  origin.  She  had  really  been  helped 
and  comforted,  though  she  knew  it  not ;  and  the  face 
of  the  comforter  was  therefore  welcome. 

When  next  her  own  friendly  visitor  called,  she  was 
not  sitting  in  idleness,  brooding  over  the  irrevocable 
past ;  but  really  forgetful  of  the  past  in  present  thought 
of  home  duties  with  which  her  hands  were  busy. 

"  How  is  it  with  you  to-day  ?  "  said  the  friend,  as  she 
took  her  hand.  "  But  I  need  scarcely  ask,  for  the 
cheerful  tone  of  your  countenance  tells  me  that  light  is 
breaking  through  the  clouds." 

"  I  have  been  too  busy  to  think  dark  thoughts  this 
morning,"  was  the  answer ;  and  even  as  this  was  said 
the  lips  which  had  arched  with  a  feeble  smile  fell  back 
into  a  sadder  outline. 

"  Busy  in  what  ?  " 

"  In  the  duties  of  my  home.  I'm  afraid  that,  under 
the  pressure  of  pain,  I  grew  selfish,  loving  to  nurse  de 
spondent  states,  and  growing  forgetful  of  the  comfort 
and  happiness  of  those  around  me.  And  now  I  am 
trying  to  make  amends." 

"  And  in  the  first  right  effort  comes  a  more  peaceful 
state." 


24  BLUE   SKY    SOMEWHERE. 

11  Perhaps  so." 

"  Don't  speak  doubtfully.     Say  yes." 

"  I  am  not  so  much  depressed  in  mind  as  I  have 
been." 

"  And  if  you  keep  on  in  this  path  of  duty  the  weight 
which  has  been  bearing  you  down  will  grow  less  and 
less  burdensome  ;  the  clouds  that  mantle  your  sky  thin 
ner  and  thinner,  until  light  breaks  through,  and  dis 
perses  them  altogether.  There  are  only  some  dark  days 
in  our  lives,  and  the  sun  must  and  will  penetrate  the 
gloomy  vapors,  and  reveal  his  smiling  countenance.  If 
these  days  are  prolonged  it  is  our  own  fault.  But  how 
is  Mrs.  Elford  ?  I  have  not  seen  her  for  some  time." 

"  More  cheerful,"  was  the  answer. 

"  That  is  gratifying." 

"  She  received  a  few  days  since  a  long  and  satisfac 
tory  letter  —  if  I  may  use  the  the  word  satisfactory  in 
such  a  connection  —  about  her  husband,  who  had  the 
most  careful  attendance  and  every  comfort  during  his 
last  illness.  Unexpectedly,  this  letter  brought  her  the 
intelligence  that  Captain  Elford  left  property  to  the 
value  of  nearly  fifteen  thousand  dollars,  the  result  of 
some  trading  adventures  on  the  coast." 

"  Then  she  is  not  left  destitute  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Already  there  is  a  break  in  the  clouds,  showing  a 
clear  blue  sky  above  them." 


BLUE   SKY   SOMEWHERE.  S5 

"  Yes." 

u  And  the  days  must  come  for  her  as  well  as  for  you, 
and  for  all  whose  sky  has  become  dark  and  threatening, 
when  the  broad,  bright  sunbeams  will  flood  the  whole 
horizon  again.  Let  us  not  give  away  to  weak  distrust, 
or  a  paralyzing  despondency,  when  the  rainy  days  come  : 
but  keep  hands  and  thought  busy  with  useful  work,  hav 
ing  faith  in  the  law  that  governs  the  world  of  mind  as 
well  as  the  world  of  nature,  and  live  in  hope  of  to 
morrow's  sunshine.  What  is  the  lesson  past  experience 
teaches  ?  Is-  it  not  the  same  in  regard  to  the  inner  as 
to  the  outer  world  ?  There  have  been  times  of  cloud 
and  rain,  and  times  of  sunshine.  There  have  been  de 
clining  days,  even  to  evening  and  solemn  night ;  and 
mornings  coming  in  beauty  and  joy.  Even  the  seasons 
are  represented  in  our  varying  states  of  mind,  as  the 
years  progress  toward  a  completion  of  their  earthy  cycle. 
And  all  these  changes  are  for  the  sake  of  fruit  —  the 
fruit  of  righteousness.  Let  us  be  mindful,  my  friend, 
of  the  lesson,  and  not  keep  too  much  out  of  the  sun 
shine  ;  lest,  when  we  come  to  make  up  our  sheaves  in 
the  harvest-time,  there  be  found  only  husk  instead  of 
grain." 


LIGHT  IN   THE   EVENING. 


III. 
LIGHT  IN  THE  EVENING. 


HE  days  grow  darker  and  drearier  as 
we  get  older."  This  came  from  one  of 
two  friends,  whose  years  had  fallen 
into  the  "yellow  leaf." 

"But,  there  shall  be  light  at  eve 
ning,"  said  the  other,  in  a  cheery 
voice. 

"  Not  unless  the  order  of  nature  be 
reversed,  Mr.  Fairfax,"  was  replied.  "  When  the  sun 
sets,  day  goes  out  in  darkness." 

"  And  yet,  for  all  this,  friend  Ascot,  there  will  be 
light  at  evening.  Not  half  so  dark  as  feared,  will  the 
shadows  fall  ;  and,  quickly,  shall  the  east  grow  radiant 
again.  Has  it  not  ahvays  been  so  ?  Have  we  not  al 
ways  found  light  at  evening,  instead  of  the  famed  Egyp 
tian  blackness.  Take  your  own  experience.  Think 
back  over  the  dark  days  through  which  you  have  passed 


LIGHT  IN   THE    EVENING.  27 

and  to  the  close  of  which  you  looked  with  a  shudder. 
Did  not  light  come  at  evening  ?  The  sun  broke  through 
lifting  clouds  ;  or,  day  came  suddenly  in  the  east  —  a 
purer,  calmer  day  than  any  you  had  ever  known." 

"  I  often  wish  that  I  could  see  with  your  eyes,  Mr. 
Fairfax,"  replied  the  friend.  "  But  my  natural  temper 
ament  is  different.  I  am  apt  to  look  on  the  gloomy  side 
of  things ;  to  turn  my  back  to  the  light." 

"  Of  course,  if  we  turn  ourselves  from  the  light,  we 
cannot  receive  its  blessing.  And  yet,  sitting  down,  of 
our  own  choice,  among  shadows,  we  complain  that  the 
days  grow  darker  and  drearier  as  we  get  older." 

The  door  of  the  room  where  the  two  old  men  were 
sitting  opened,  and  a  young  woman  entered  with  a  tray 
in  her  hand,  on  which  were  two  saucers  of  ripe  straw 
berries.  She  set  them  down  on  a  table,  saying,  with  a 
smile  : 

"  They  are  just  from  the  garden.  I  thought  you 
would  enjoy  them." 

"  Light  in  the  evening  !  "  Mr.  Fairfax  looked  at  his 
friend,  as  the  young  woman  went  out.  Dropping  his 
eyes  to  the  floor,  Mr.  Ascot  mused  for  a  little  while,  then 
said,  partly  speaking  to  himself: 

"  Yes,  it  is  lighter  than  I  anticipated.  I  thought 
this  day,  in  the  days  of  my  life,  would  go  down  in  the 
very  blackness  of  darkness.  I  was  angry  with  my  way- 


20  LIGHT  IN   THE    EVENING. 

ward  son,  when  he  took  him  a  wife,  because  I  fancied 
he  had  stooped  in  marriage.  He  had  never  been  much 
comfort  to  me  before  that  time,  and  I  gave  up  all  hope 
in  him  for  the  future.  But  there  was  a  good  providence 
in  the  event,  which  I  did  not  then  see.  Even  while  I 
was  drawing  around  me  the  curtains  of  doubt  and 
gloom,  her  hand  was  moving  among  the  overhanging 
clouds,  and  bearing  some  of  their  heaviest  folds  aside. 
To  my  son  she  proved  a  good  angel.  He  loved  her,  and 
she  was  worthy  of  his  love.  You  know  that  he  died. 
I  did  not,  at  first,  feel  like  receiving  the  widow  home. 
There  were  no  children,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  She  is 
nothing  to  me  now.  Why  should  I  take  up  the  burden 
of  her  support  ?  Let  her  go  back  among  her  friends.' 
Partly  to  satisfy  public  sentiment,  and  partly  because 
her  pure  and  loving  nature  had  begun  to  influence  me, 
I  took  her  home.  It  was  the  closing  of  a  day  of  sor 
row  and  disappointment,  and  yet  I  say  it  thankfully,  at 
the  evening  time  there  was  light.  No  daughter  could 
be  more  loving  or  more  thoughtful  of  every  comfort. 
What  should  I  do  without  her?  " 

"  Yet  only  a  little  while  ago  you  complained  that,  as 
years  increased,  the  days  grew  darker,"  said  Mr.  Fair 
fax. 

"  And  so  I  find  them."  Mr.  Ascot's  countenance, 
which  had  brightened  while  he  spoke  of  his  daughter- 


LIGHT   IN    THE    EVENING.  29 

in-law,  fell  again.  *'  There  may  be  a  little  gleam  here 
and  there  —  a  struggling  of  light,  in  feeble  rays,  through 
broken  spaces  —  but,  I  see  over  all  things  a  steadily  in 
creasing  gloom." 

"  From  whence  does  it  come,  my  friend  ?  This 
gloom  is  an  effect.  Do  you  see  the  cause  ?  " 

"  The  causes  are  manifold.  Everywhere  disappoint 
ment  tracks  my  path.  The  full  promise  of  spring  has 
never  come  in  the  summer-time,  nor  the  promise  of  sum 
mer  at  fruit  gathering.  Always,  realization  falls  below 
the  hope.  So  it  has  ever  been  with  me,  my  friend  ;  un 
til  now  I  have  lost  all  confidence  in  the  future  ;  have 
ceased  to  look  for  any  good. 

"  And  yet,"  said  Mr.  Fairfax,  "  even  while  you  are 
thus  complaining,  good  gifts  are  showered  upon  you  in 
rich  abundance." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them,"  answered  Mr.  Ascot, 
half  amused,  yet  with  a  flavor  of  irony  in  his  voice. 

"  Sometimes  there  is  obscurity  of  vision.  The  ob 
jects  exist,  but  we  do  not  perceive  them.  I  think  it  is 
so  in  your  case." 

"  Ah  ?  "  with  a  faint,  incredulous  smile. 

"  Take  your  natural  life,"  said  Mr.  Fairfax.  "  What 
is  lacking  to  your  enjoyment  ?  " 

"  O  dear  !  almost  every  thing,"  was  impulsively  an 
swered. 


30  LIGHT   IN   THE    EVENING. 

"  What  ?  Is  there  lack  of  pleasant  food,  or  refresh 
ing  drink,  or  soft  and  warm  clothing,  for  the  body  ? 
Have  you  not  all  things  in  liberal  abundance  ?  Is  any 
thing  desired  for  comfort  absent  from  your  dwelling  ? 
or,  does  an  enemy  threaten  to  despoil  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Ascot  shook  his  head.     "  I  have  nothing  to  com- 

O 

plain  of  in  this  respect.  "  But "  He  paused, 

grew  thoughtful,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Yet,  for  all  this,  your  heart  is  troubled.  There  is 
on  your  mind  a  weight  of  dissatisfaction  —  you  feel  a 
constant  yearning  after  something  not  clearly  seen ; 
the  nature  of  which  is  not  clearly  apprehended.  Your 
days  are  not  sunshiny,  and  you  feel,  as  the  evening  draws 
on,  that  it  will  go  down  in  clouds." 

"  Yes.     You  state  the  case  exactly." 

"  And  still  I  say,"  Mr.  Fairfax  spoke  cheerily  again, 
"  that  there  will  be  light  in  the  evening.  Always,  even 
in  the  most  external  events  of  your  life,  when  the  period 
of  trial,  or  sorrow,  or  misfortune  closed  —  when  the 
day's  dreaded  termination  came  —  light  poured  in  from 
the  west  through  rending  clouds,  on  the  day  of  a  new 
and  higher  state,  broke  in  the  purpling  east.  The  in 
stance  to  which  you  a  little  while  ago  referred  is  but  ona 
of  hundreds  that  stand  recorded  in  your  memory,  if  you 
will  open  the  book  and  read.  But,  for  you  and  for  me, 
my  friend,  there  is  a  day  going  down,  toward  the  eve- 


LIGHT    IN    THE    EVENING.  31 

ning  of  which  thought  cannot  fail  often  to  look  forward. 
Shall  there  be  light  then  ?  Will  the  last  setting  of  our 
sun  leave  us  in  darkness ;  or  shall  it  be  only  the  herald 
of  a  day-spring  from  on  high  ?  " 

"  You  have  touched  the  key  note  of  a  depressing 
theme,"  was  answered.  "  Some  men  turn  from  the 
idea  of  death  stoically,  and  some  with  indifference,  while 
others  contemplate  the  event  serenely,  and  see  in  it  only 
a  brief  passage  to  heaven.  Not  so  with  me.  The  thought 
of  this  last  time  comes  always  in  gloom.  I  turn  from 
it  in  depression  —  sometimes  with  a  shudder." 

"  And  yet  you  are  a  church-member." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  have,  I  think,  tried  earnestly  to  keep  the 
divine  law." 

"  As  far  as  I  understand  the  commands  of  God,  I 
have  tried  to  live  up  to  them.  The  time  was  when  I 
did  not  give  much  heed  to  this  law  ;  but,  for  many 
years  past,  I  have  not  wilfully  gone  counter  to  its  clear 
enunciations." 

"If  ye  love  me,  keep  my  commandments.  If  ye 
continue  in  my  Word,  then  are  ye  my  disciples  indeed. 
What  more  than  this  ?  "  The  friend  spoke  in  a  low, 
impressive  voice.  "  If  we  obey  the  divine  law,  sincere 
ly  ;  that  is,  because  it  is  the  divine  law,  and  not  because 
we  may  have  wordly  gain  as  nominal  Christians,  we 


32  LIGHT    IN    THE    EVENING. 

need  have  no  fear  of  the  last  time.  Death  will  come 
as  a  gentle  spirit,  and  taking  us  by  the  hand,  lead  us 
through  the  valley.  There  will  be  light  at  evening, 
though  the  declining  clay  be  veiled  with  clouds." 

Sooner  than  either  of  the  friends  had  imagined,  this 
prophecy  was  closed.  A  year  had  not  passed,  when 
Mr.  Fairfax  learned,  one  day,  that  Mr.  Ascot  was  sick. 
He  found  the  daughter-in-law  in  tears. 

44  Not  seriously  ill,  I  trust,"  he  said. 

"  We  have  very  little  hope  of  him,"  was  answered  in 
a  voice  choked  by  sobs.  "  He  seems  to  be  failing  rapidly." 

"  I  am  pained  to  hear  this,"  said  Mr.  Fairfax. 
"  How  long  has  he  been  sick  ?  " 

"  For  some  months  I  had  thought  him  failing ;  but 
he  made  no  complaint.  Three  weeks  ago  he  became 
suddenly  ill,  and  has  been  rapidly  going  down  ever 
since." 

"  What  about  his  state  of  mind  ?  " 

"  He  is  very  calm." 

Mr.  Fairfax  went  up  to  the  sick  chamber.  On  the 
face  of  his  old  friend  he  saw  death  written  ;  not  in  fear 
ful  lines,  but  in  radiant  characters.  A  smile  broke 
over  the  pale  features,  lighting  them  up  as  if  a  curtain 
had  just  been  drawn  aside,  admitting  the  sunshine.  The 
hands  of  the  two  old  men  were  laid  within  each  other, 
and  tightened. 


LIGHT   IN   THE    EVENING.  33 

"  I  did  not,  until  now,  hear  of  your  illness,"  said  Mr. 
Fairfax,  "  or  I  would  have  seen  you  before." 

"  It  has  been  severe,  breaking  me  down  rapidly," 
w^s  feebly  answered.  Then,  after  a  brief  pause,  he  add 
ed  — "  The  evening  about  which  we  talked,  one  day 
not  long  ago,  has  come." 

"  That  evening  which  comes,  soon  or  late  to  all." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  is  there  light  ?  " 

"  There  is  light,  my  friend.  For  a  little  while  it 
seemed  as  if  the  day  would  go  down  in  blackness  ;  but 
angel  hands  soon  commenced  folding  back  the  cloudy 
curtains  that  shut  away  the  sun-illumined  sky,  and  now, 
instead  of  darkness,  there  is  light.  Instead  of  sun-set, 
it  is  sun-rising.  Even  as  I  trembled  at  the  approaching 
shadow,  a  sweet  voice  cried  to  me,  '  Lo,  the  morning 
breaketh  !  ' " 

"  And  all  fear  is  gone  ?  " 

"  What  is  there  to  fear  ?  "  feebly  answered  the  sick 
man.  "  God  is  just  and  merciful.  He  knows  what  we 
are  ;  how  much  we  have  been  tempted  ;  and  how  sin 
cerely  we  have  tried  to  keep  His  law.  He  is  a  discern- 
er  of  the  thoughts  and  intentions.  Our  purpose  to  do 
right,  even  though  *we  have  often  failed  of  right  action, 
will  be  the  witness  in  our  favor.  Here,  confidently,  I 
rest  my  case,  and  tranquilly  await  my  Lord's  decision." 
2* 


34  LIGHT   IN   THE   EVENING. 

"  Actions  are  really  good  only  in  the  degree  that  they 
have  the  inspiration  of  a  good  purpose,"  said  Mr.  Fair 
fax.  "  Only  such  actions  find  favor  with  God.  So, 
resting  in  confidence  on  your  will  to  do  right,  you  look 
for  the  joyful  words  —  'Well  done  ! ' : 

Mr.  Ascot  closed  his  eyes  and  lay  still  for  some  time. 
The  look  of  heavenly  peace  did  not  fade  from  his  coun 
tenance.  Presently  the  eyes  opened  again,  but  their 
expression  was  new.  They  saw,  but  not  the  fixed  and 
circumscribed  objects  in  the  death  chamber.  There  had 
been  granted  a  clearer  vision  —  mortal  investures  were 
folded  away.  The  lips  moved,  as  the  face  grew  bright. 
Mr.  Fairfax  bent  to  hear : 

"  It  shall  come  to  pass  —  that  —  at  evening  time  — 
it  shall  be  light." 

"  God's  promise  fulfilled,"  whispered  Mr.  Fairfax. 
"  The  evening  has  come,  and  it  is  light !  " 

44  Light — light!"  Faint  as  a  sigh  the  response 
came,  in  the  last  motion  of  dying  lips. 

The  night  and  the  morning  had  met,  day  breaking  in 
beauty  on  a  human  soul.  In  the  evening  time  there 
was  light. 


HE    GIVETH    HIS   BELOVED   SLEEP.' 


IV. 

HE  GIVETH  HIS  BELOVED  SLEEP." 

F  she  could  only  get  sleep,  sound  refresh 
ing  sleep.  What  would  I  not  give  for 
power  to  confer  this  blessing  on  my 
child  !  You  must  give  her  anodynes." 
The  doctor  shook  his  head. 
"  Nature  is  taking  care  of  this,"  he 
answered.  "  There  come  many  periods 
of  unconsciousness  in  every  twenty-four 
hours.  She  has  little  snatches  of  slum 
ber,  bv  which  the  nerves  are  tranquilized  and  the  body 
refreshed ;  and  these  are  better  for  her  than  the  heavy 
sleep  of  opium.  Believe  me  that  I  am  not  indifferent 
to  the  case.  No  —  no  —  my  heart  is  in  it.  Were  she  my 
own  child,  she  could  hardly  dwell  more  in  my  thoughts, 
nor  tax  in  any  higher  degree  my  skill." 

The  doctor  went  away,  and  the  mother  returned  tc 
her  place  by  the  bedside  of  her  sick  child. 


3G  "  HE    G1VETH   HIS   BELOVED    SLEEP." 

-Care  never  failed  —  hand  never  wearied.  Still  love 
was  bound  in  service.  It  could  reach  so  far,  and  no 
farther.  At  the  utmost  limit  of  use  it  stood  in  tears 
over  its  own  weakness,  sighing  "  What  would  I  not  give 
to  my  beloved  !  " 

"  It  is  so  hard  to-  see  her  suffer  ;  to  know  that  she  has 
not  one  hour  of  rest  from  pain  —  one  night  of  peaceful 
sleep,"  said  the  mother  to  a  friend,  and  the  friend  an 
swered  : 

"  It  cannot  last  long.  Soon  there  must  come. a  sleep 
that  will  medicine  all  pain." 

"  You  will  kill  me  if  you  talk  so  !  "  A  pang  went 
through  the  mother's  heart.  "  I  cannot  give  up  my 
precious  child.  I  cannot  —  I  will  not  see  her  die  !  " 

A  low  cry  of  suffering  came  from  the  next  room 
where  the  sick  girl  lay,  and  in  a  moment  afterwards 
mother  and  friend  were  at  the  bedside. 

"  Where  is  the  pain  darling  ?  "  was  the  mother's 
anxious  question. 

A  hand  moved  feebly,  as  if  to  touch  the  region  of 
pain. 

"  Is  it  in  your  side  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Let  me  raise  you  higher  on  the  pillow.  There. 
Do  you  feel  better  now  ?  " 

But  the  forehead  was   not   smooth,  nor  the    mouth 


"  HE    GIVETH    HIS   BEHOVED    SLEEP."  37 

placid.  This  change  had  wrought  no  ease,  as  the  moth 
er  saw. 

As  they  sat,  bending  towards  her,  the  mother  clasped 
her  hands,  and  in  half-despairing  tones,  said : 

"  Lord,  give  her  sleep  !  " 

There  was  a  pause  —  a  kind  of  hush  —  the  penetra 
tion  of  a  new  sphere.  Gradually,  the  countenance  of 
the  sick  girl  changed.  The  lines  and  indentations  of 
her  forehead,  that  it  hurt  you  to  look  upon,  smoothed 
themselves  out ;  the  lips  softened ;  the  lashes  drooped, 
and  lay  without  quivering,  on  her  cheeks.  How  still 
the  chamber  grew  ! 

"  She  is  going  to  sleep,"  said  the  mother,  whispering 
at  the  ear  of  her  friend.  "  Do  you  think  God  heard 
me  just  now,  and  sent  the  rest  and  peace  I  asked  for  ?  " 

"  He  is  good  —  nay,  goodness  itself.  His  love  for 
Mary  is  tenderer  than  even  your  love." 

They  drew  back  from  the  sleeper,  noiselesssly,  drop 
ping  the  window  curtains,  that  darkness  might  rest  on 
her  eyelids  and  weigh  them  down  more  surely. 

"  It  can  hardly  be  tenderer  than  mine.  But,  do  you 
think  God  heard  my  prayer  ?  "  said  the  mother. 

"  You  have  prayed,  many  times  that  she  might  have 
sleep  ?  " 

"  O  yes." 

"  But  never  perhaps,  in  the  same  spirit  that  moved 
you  just  now.  You  felt  helpless  and  despairing." 


38  "  HE   GIVETH    JUS    BELOVED    SLEEP." 

44  Yes." 

"  Willing  to  abandon  all,  so  that  your  precious  one 
might  be  at  peace.  You  cried  out  — 4  Lord,  give  her 
sleep ! '  And,  in  that  moment,  you  loosened  your  clasp 
ing  arms.  He  has  sent  her  sleep  —  if  not  in  answer  to 
your  prayer,  in  answer,  it  may  be,  to  your  state  — 
broken,  at  last,  by  suffering,  into  submission." 

44  Into  submission  !  "  There  was  a  thrill  of  fear  and 
pain  in  the  mother's  voice.  "  Submission  to  what  ?  " 

44  His  ways  are  not  as  our  ways,  dear  friend  !  But 
they  are  always  in  mercy  and  loving  kindness.  And 
they  will  be  so  now.  Could  he  have  sent  a  greater 
blessing  to  this  dear  one  than  the  sleep  which  now  rests 
upon  her  like  heaven's  benediction  !  " 

The  mother  did  not  answer,  but  sat  in  statue-like  still 
ness,  for  a  minute.  Then  rising,  she  drew  back  the 
window-curtain  to  let  in  the  light  again.  Her  manner 
was  deliberate,  yet  under  repression,  as  if  she  were 
holding  down  some  struggling  impulse.  From  the  win 
dow  she  crossed  to  the  bed,  her  friend,  who  had  risen 
with  her,  moving  at  her  side.  Both  stood,  for  a  short 
space,  looking  down  at  the  sleeper.  .Jler  countenance 
was  even  more  placid  than  when  they  gazed  upon  it  a 
little  while  before  —  softer  and  more  infantile  in  its  ex 
pression  of  repose. 

44  She  sleeps  sweetly,"  said  the  friend,  in  a  whisper. 


"HE  GIVETH   HIS    BELOVED   SLEEP."  39 

"  Dear  child  !  "  was  breathed  in  response. 

"  What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ?  "  resumed 
the  friend, — "  Wealth,  and  beauty,  and  all  delight. 
But  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep.  Your  prayer  is  an 
swered." 

A  wild  paroxysm,  and  then  a  calmer  state.  Angels 
of  consolation  were  present  with  the  angels  of  resur 
rection  ;  and  while  the  latter  were  opening  the  gates  of 
life,  the  former  were  giving  peace. 

"  You  would  not  awaken  her  from  this  sleep,"  said 
the  friend,  as  they  stood  looking  down  afterwards  upon 
the  pure  white  vesture  of  clay,  which  the  soul  had  put 
off  for  a  body  made  of  spiritual  substance  —  imperishable 
and  immortal ;  —  stood  looking  down  at  the  pure  white 
vesture,  lying  in  the  perfume  of  bursting  flowers,  thrown 
over  it  by  loving  hands. 

"  He  giveth  his  beloved  sleep."  This  was  the  moth 
er's  answer,  as  she  looked  through  tears,  into  the  face 
of  her  friend.  The  angels  of  Consolation  had  not  been 
with  her  in  vain. 


40 


IT    IS    WELL   WITH    THEM. 


V. 


IT  IS  WELL  WITH  THEM. 


,         HE   lifted  her  sad,  patient  eyes  to  the 
speaker's  face,  and  gazed  at  her  stead- 

ay- 

"  When   we  say  death,  the  angels 
understand  resurrection." 

Still  no  remark,   but   an    earnest, 
questioning  look. 

"  There  is  no  death,  in  the  sense 
you  and  I  have  understood  the'  word. 
Does  the  worm  really  die,  or  only  rise,  through  a  won 
derful  transformation,  into  a  higher  state  of  being  ?  Is 
it  death,  or  only  resurrection  into  a  new  life  ?  And  has 
the  soul  of  man  feebler  vitality  than  the  life-spark  of  a 
stupid  grub  ?  when  its  earthly  state  is  completed,  shall  it 
not  rise  in  a  new  and  more  beautiful  body,  made  of  spirit 
ual  substances,  and  with  a  new  development  of  powers, 
infinitely  transcending  all  mortal  endowments  ?  " 


IT   IS  WELL   WITH   THEM.  41 

> 

And  still,  there  was  no  answer :  but  a  few  rays  of 
light  came  into  the  sad  eyes. 

"  Paul  tells  us  that  the  invisible  things  of  the  other 
world  may  be  understood  by  the  things  that  appear 
in  this.  Let  us  take  the  birth  of  a  lovely  aeriel  being  sim 
ultaneously  with  the  apparent  death  of  a  repulsive  worm, 
as  a  type  of  the  soul's  resurrection.  The  worm  did  not 
really  die,  but  its  life  put  on  in  a  new  birth,  higher 
beauty  of  form,  and  developed  higher  instincts.  Before 
it  was  all  of  the  earth,  earthy  ;  in  its  transformation,  it 
became  changed  into  a  creature  of  more  etherial  sub 
stance,  fitted  to  enjoy  the  heaven  of  sunshine,  air,  and 
flowers.  If  it  is  so  with  the  worm  in  its  death,  what 
may  we  not  hope  and  believe  for  man  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  sister,"  said  the  sad-eyed  listener,  speak 
ing  for  the  first  time,  and  in  a  voice  that  was  mourn 
ful  as  the  sound  of  falling  tears :  "  if  I  could  but 
comprehend  this  —  if  I  could  only  see  anything  but  the 
grave's  impenetrable  darkness,  and  my  babes  lying  there 
dead,  I  would  feel  like  a  new  being.  But  I  saw  all 
beauty,  sweetness,  and  love  go  out  of  their  dear  faces, 
and  their  soft  flesh  put  on  marble  coldness.  They  were 
dead  —  dead  !  I  thought  my  breath  would  stop  when 
the  close  coffin  lids  shut  over  them  :  and  I  have  felt 
the  weight  of  earth  that  covers  them,  lying  ever  since  their 
burial  upon  my  heart.  Dead  —  dead  !  The  breath 


42  IT   IS   WELL   WITH   THEM. 

went  out  of  them,  and  they  were  gone  —  gone  for 
ever  ! " 

"  It  was  a  resurrection,  dear  Agnes  !  "  replied  the  sis 
ter,  who  had  come  in  her  love,  from  a  distant  home,  to 
speak  words  of  consolation  in  a  time  of  sorrow, — "  A  re 
surrection  of  their  souls,  clothed  in  forms  of  immortal 
beauty.  When  they  ceased  to  breathe  in  this  natural 
world,  their  lungs  expanded  with  the  air  of  a  spiritual 
world,  and  their  hearts,  bounding  with  love,  sent  the 
currents  of  a  heavenly  vitality  through  all  their  veins. 
Look  past  the  grave  :  past  the  shadows  and  darkness  : 
past  the  cold  dead  clay.  Your  children  are  yet  alive. 
What  you  saw  buried,  was  only  their  cast-off  earthly 
garments.  They  have  garments  now  of  spiritual  sub 
stance,  that  cannot  be  soiled  by  evil,  nor  marred  by 
sickness." 

"  If  I  could  only  be  sure  of  this,  sister,"  answered 
the  bereaved  one. 

"  From  whence  came  the  tender  love  that  filled  your 
heart,  sister  ?  Was  it  born  of  yourself?  No.  God 
gave  it  when  he  gave  you  those  children.  He  sent  this 
love  for  them  into  the  world  for  their  protection.  It  was 
his  love,  not  yours  ;  only  yours  as  the  children  were 
yours.  Can  you  believe  this  ?  " 

The  mourner  was  silent. 

"  From  whence  have  you  life  ?  " 


IT   IS   WELL   WITH    THEM.  43 

"  It  is  God's  gift." 

"  Yes.  We  have  no  life  in  ourselves  ;  else  would  we  be 
gods.  If,  therefore,  life  is  God's  gift,  so  are  all  good  af 
fections  ;  and  as  a  consequence  that  tenderest  of  all  af 
fections,  a  mother's  love  for  her  children.  Now  if 
mother-love  is  from  God,  will  it  not  go  with  the  child 
ren  he  takes  from  earth  to  heaven  ?  And  will  he  not 
give  them  into  the  care  of  angels  ?  I  can  believe  noth 
ing  else." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  thought,"  said  the  sister,  her  sad 
eyes  growing  more  luminous.  "  Oh,  if  it  were  to  me 
an  unquestioned  truth  !  " 

"  Let  your  mind  dwell  upon  it.  Picture  to  yourself 
angelic  homes,  filled  with  the  beauty,  and  grace, 
and  happiness  of  childhood.  Homes,  into  which  there 
is  the  birth  of  a  child  simultaneously  with  the  death  of 
a  child  on  earth.  Think  of  your  babes  in  one  of  those 
homes,  lying  on  the  breast  of  an  angel,  into  whose  heart 
God  has  given  a  fulness  of  mother-love  as  far  above 
yours  as  are  her  celestial  capacities." 

Was  that  a  smile  winning  its  way  over  the  face  of 
sorrow  ?  It  was  something  so  far  removed  from  pain  or 
grief,  that  it  looked  like  a  smile. 

"  If  I  were  only  certain  that  it  was  so  with  them  !  " 
she  said,  with  an  almost  fluttering  eagerness. 

"  Is  it  not  a  more  rational  thought  than  yours  ?     More 


44:  IT  IS   WELL   WITH   THEM. 

rational  than  to  think  of  so  much  beauty  and  sweetness, 
buried  up  in  the  earth  ?  It  was  the  loveliness  of  their 
souls  that  gave  such  exquisite  grace  to  their  bodies ; 
their  innocence  that  ensphered  them  with  love,  and 
made  every  motion,  look,  and  tone  so  full  of  all  win 
ning  attractions.  This  did  not,  and  could  not  die.  It 
was  not  flesh,  but  spirit.  The  soul  merely  laid  off  its 
robes  of  clay,  to  put  on  garments  such  as  the  angels 
wear." 

"  And  you  fully  believe  this,  my  sister  ?  " 
u  As  undoubtingly  as  I  believe  In  my  existence.  Did 
not  the  Lord  say  of  little  children,  '  Their  angels  do  al 
ways  behold  the  face  of  my  father  ? '  Take  this  as 
you  will,  and  is  it  not  an  assurance  to  us,  that  children 
are  under  the  especial  care  of  angels  ?  Not  their  bo 
dies  only,  but  in  a  more  intimate  degree,  their  immortal 
spirits,  which  are  of  infinitely  more  value  than  their 
bodies.  Can  this  care  and  love  cease  when  the  clayey 
vesture  is  laid  off  forever  ?  "  No !  For  then,  these 
loving  angels  — '  their  angels  '  —  can  have  them  more 
entirely  as  their  own,  and  draw  nearer  to  them,  because 
all  earthly  and  perverting  influences  are  removed  from 
their  souls." 

"  Dear  children  !  "  said  the  sister,  clasping  her  hands 
together,  and  looking  upward  with  eyes  full  of  light. 
"  Dear,  dear  children  !  May  it  indeed  be  thus  with  you  ! 


IT   IS   WELL   WITH    THEM.  45 

May  you  be  in  your  Father's  house,  cared  for  by  His 
angels." 

"Doubt  not  for  an  instant,"  was  replied  to  this  — 
"  not  for  a  single  instant !  It  is  well  with  them  ;  better 
even  than  your  imagination,  made  fruitful  by  love, 
could  portray.  Does  not  the  word  Heaven  include,  in 
one  thought,  all  perfection,  all  beauty,  all  felicity? 
Your  babes  are  in.  Heaven.  What  more  could  you  de 
sire  for  them  ?  " 

*  In  Heaven  ;  in  Heaven  !  "  The  sister  closed  her 
eyes,  and  sat  very  still,  trying  to  bridge  the  dark  gulf 
of  death,  and  walk  over  it  in  thought.  She  made  the 
passage,  and  saw  her  babes  on  the  other  side.  The 
grieving  arch  of  her  lips  lost  its  clear  outline  in  a  smile 
that  covered  it  like  opening  flowers. 

"  Yes,  in  Heaven,  Agnes,  where  our  mother  went 
years  ago." 

"  Dear  mother  !  If  she  should  know  them  as  mine  ! 
Do  you  think  that  possible,  sister  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  believe  that !  "  said  the  mourner. 

"  You  may  believe,  dear  sister,  that  God  will  let  our 
mother  know  your  babes,  if  in  that  knowledge  would 
come  to  her  any  increase  of  happiness." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  it  would  make  her  happier,"  was  an 
swered,  with  a  new-born  enthusiasm.  "  How  the 


46  rr  is  WELL  WITH  THEM. 

thought  warms  my  heart !  Oh,  sister !  I  feel  that  it 
must  be  as  you  say.  That  my  lost  ones  are  in  a  heav 
enly  home." 

"  It  is  just  as  true,  love,  as  that  you  and  I  are  in  an 
earthly  home.  There  are  two  worlds ;  this  natural  world, 
and  the  spiritual  world.  Here,  all  forms  are  of  natural 
substance  —  there,  all  forms  are  of  spiritual  substance. 
That  world  is  the  world  of  causes  ;  this  world  the  world 
of  effects  ;  and  as  all  effects  correspond  with  their  causes, 
we  may,  with  the  clearest  reason  infer,  that  such  things 
as  exist  here  in  a  natural  manner,  exist  in  that  world  in 
a  spiritual  manner.  If  there  are  trees  and  flowers  here 

—  green  fields  and  shining  rivers  —  habitations  —  cities 

—  garments  —  and  the  like,  made  of  natural  substances  ; 
is  it  any  stretch  of  probabilit}1-  to  conclude  that  all  such 
things  exist  in  the  other  world,  but  made  of  spiritual 
substances  ?     Can  we  form  any  idea  of  a  world  without 
them  ?     I  cannot.     We  have  permitted  all  ideas  of  the 
spiritual  world  to  float  through  our  minds  in  shapes  in 
definite,  and  this  because  in  the  word  spirit  \ve  thought 
of  something  unsubstantial,  like  a  breath  of  wind.     But, 
really,  our  spirits  are  the  only  things  substantial  that  we 
possess.     Our  bodies  are  frail,  changing,  and  finite.     In 
a  few  years  they  will  cease   to   exist,  and  be  absorbed 
wholly  into  elemental  nature  ;  but  our  souls  are  imper 
ishable  and    eternal.    And  must  not  the  world  in  which 


IT    IS    WELL   WITH    THEM.  4" 

they  are  to  live  forever,  be  real  and  substantial  ?  It  is 
harder  to  doubt  than  to  believe  this.  Agnes,  my  sister 
—  there  is  a  bridge  of  light  across  the  river  of  death. 
Pass  over  it,  in  your  thought,  and  stand  securely  on  the 
other  side.  There  are  your  babes ;  and  let  an  assur 
ance  that  it  is  well  with  them  drive  all  the  shadows 
from  your  soul,  that  peace  may  come  in  with  sunshine." 

And  peace  did  come  into  the  heart  of  the  sorrowing 
one.  Not  in  vain  had  been  the  sister's  words  of  conso 
lation.  They  covered  up,  as  it  were,  from  the  mourn 
er's  eyes,  the  graves  of  her  children,  and  showed  her 
their  forms,  clothed  in  garments  of  such  beauty  as  mor 
tal  eyes  had  never  seen.  They  were  no  longer  dead, 
but  alive.  The  marble  effigies,  livid  with  signs  of  dis 
solution,  and  ghastly  to  behold,  which  she  had  lately 
remembered  as  all  of  her  babes  that  love  could  cling  to, 
faded  from  vision,  —  and  in  heavenly  homes,  with  love, 
and  life,  and  all  of  beauty  around  them,  she  saw  the 
darlings  of  her  soul. 

It  was  well  with  them,  and  she  believed  it. 


48 


IF   I   HAD   KNOWN   OF   THIS. 


VI. 

IF  I  HAD  KNOWN  OF  THIS. 

EAREST  mother,"  so  she  wrote,  "  how 
my  heart  is  aching  to  see  you  !  Three 
years  —  three  long,  long  years  !  What 
an  age  it. seems  !  In  the  Fall,  Henry 
said  that  I  should  visit  you  in  the 
Spring  ;  and  now  the  maple  leaves  are 
out,  and  golden  buttercups  spangle  the 
green  fields,  but  he  does  not  speak  of 
it.  I  wonder  if  he  has  forgotten  ? 
How  could  he  forget?  Last  evening  I  had  it  on  my 
tongue  to  say  that  Spring  was  here,  and  did  begin  the 
sentence,  but  he  interrupted  me  with  a_complaint  about 
something  wrong  in  our  housekeeping  matters,  and  I 
had  no  heart  to  touch  the  subject  again.  If  things  go 
wrong,  and  worry  him,  while  I  am  here  and  trying  to 
do  my  best,  they  would  become  intolerable .  during  my 
'absence.  It  is  plain  that  I  am  not  to  see  my  dear  old 


IF    I    HAD    KNOWN    OF    THIS.  49 

home  this  Spring.  Henry  cannot  spare  rne.  Well, 
well ;  no  doubt  all  is  for  the  best.  But,  I  am  a  weak 
child  instead  of  a  strong  woman  ;  a  weak  child,  longing 
for  my  mother. 

"  Henry  is  kind  —  I  love  him,  dear  mother  !  Yes,  I 
love  my  husband,  oh  so  tenderly  and  so  truly  !  I  try  to 
be  a  good  wife ;  I  try  to  enter  into  all  his  plans  ;  to 
help  him  in  everything.  But,  his  heart  is  set  on  this 
world  more  than  mine.  He  lives  only  for  what  is  ex 
ternal,  while  my  thought  is  all  the  while  receding  —  all 
the  while  dwelling  among  things  unseen.  I  am  not  as 
strong  as  .1  was  last  Spring,  nor  so  stout.  I  looked  over 
some  of  my  dresses,  laid  by  a  year  ago,  and  find  that 
they  will  have  to  be  taken  in  before  I  can  wear  them. 
I  was  surprised  at  this,  for  I  haven't  been  sick  —  only  a 
little  drooping.  My  appetite  was  poor  all  winter,  and 
is  no  better  now.  I  try  to  eat,  in  order  to  keep  up  my 
strength,  but  have  to  force  nearly  every  mouthful. 

"  Don't  mind  the  stains  on  this  page,  mother ;  I  can't 
keep  my  tears  back  while  I  write  for  thinking  how  only 
my  poor  written  words  will  go  to  you  —  how,  only, 
from  this  sheet  I  can  look  up  into  your  dear,  dear  face, 
and  not  feast  my  living  eyes  upon  you,  nor  clasp  your 
neck,  nor  feel  your  kisses  on  my  lips.  Three  years  — 
such  long  years !  Mother !  oh,  mother  I  what  ails 
me  ?  " 


50  IF   I   HAD   KNOWN   OF  THIS. 

The  pen  dropped  from  nerveless  fingers,  and  the 
writer's  pale,  gentle  face,  wet  with  tears,  was  laid  upon  the 
blotted  sheet  before  her.  Down  stairs,  in  the  rooni  just 
beneath,  sat  Henry  Willis,  her  husband,  with  busy  brain. 
He  was  a  strong,  earnest  man,  whose  heart  was  in  his 
work.  For  three  or  four  years  he  had  been  all  absorb 
ed  in  laying  the  foundation  on  which  to  build  a  temple 
dedicated  to  fortune ;  and  now,  the  walls  beginning  to 
rise,  he  could  think  of  little  beyond  the  plans  and  pro 
gress  of  this  temple.  It  was  not  designed  to  be  very 
imposing  or  spacious,  for  his  ideal  was  not  grand  ;  but 
such  as  it  was,  it  had  even  while  yet  only  shadowed 
forth,  became  the  dwelling  place  of  almost  every 
thought. 

Henry  Willis  had  not  forgotten  his  promise  to  let  his 
wife  visit  her  mother.  All  through  the  winter  it  had 
been  remembered,  if  not  spoken  of,  but  with  diminishing 
pleasure  as  the  Spring  approached.  Now,  he  did  not 
see  that  he  could  possibly  let  her  go.  Such  absence 
would  abridge  his  comfort  materially ;  and  beside,  the 
expense  troubled  him.  To  fit  her  out  with  proper  cloth 
ing  for  the  visit,  and  pay  the  cost  of  travel,  would  not 
take  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  ;  and  there  were  so 
many  things  he  could  do  with  this  sum  of  money. 

"  I  wonder  she  can  think  of  going,  when  she  knows 
what  it  will  cost."  So  he  was  talking  to  himself  in  the 


IF   I   HAD    KNOWN    OF   THIS.  51 

room  below,  while  she  sat  writing,  as  we  have  seen, 
above.  "  I  work  too  hard  for  my  money  to  throw  it 
away  after  this  fashion.  I  wish  she  took  more  interest 
in  things  ;  was  as  earnest  to  get  ahead  as  I  am.  I  don't 
understand  her.  It's  as  my  father  said  before  me  — 
4  Women  are  riddles.'  O,  well !  I  must  only  make  the 
best  of  it.  Esther  never  crosses  me  in  anything,  and 
if  I  scold,  never  says  a  hard  word  back.  I  sometimes  wish 
that  she  was  sharper  than  she  is,  even  if  she  was  sharp 
on  me  sometimes.  As  to  going  home  this  Spring,  I  don't 
see  that  it  is  possible.  There  is  too  much  to  do,  and  I 
can't  spare  the  money.  She's  said  nothing  about  it,  and 
I  guess  don't  intend  to.  Maybe  she's  waiting  for  me  to 
speak  ;  or,  maybe,  she  sees  just  how  it  is,  and  has  con 
cluded  in  her  mind  that  it  won't  pay.  Of  course  I 
shall  make  no  allusion  to  the  subject,  if  she  doesn't.  I 
don't  understand  this  way  some  people  have  of  looking 
back,  and  hankering  after  old  places  and  former  things. 
I  look  straight  ahead,  and  build  my  hopes  in  the  future. 
The  past  has  little  in  it  that  I  love  or  care  for  while  the 
future  is  full  of  becoming  pleasures.  Ah,  well !  We're 
not  all  formed  alike.  It  takes  every  kind  to  make  a 
world." 

How  little  did  Henry  Willis  comprehend  the  woman 
he  had  taken  to  be  his  wife.  Her  gentleness,  her 
sweetness,  her  tenderness  had  won  him  ;  but  he  was 


52  IF   I   HAD    KNOWN   OF   THIS. 

too  much  in  the  world,  and  a  man  of  the  world,  to  com 
prehend  the  wants  of  such  a  nature.  His  inner  life  re 
flected  only  external  things  —  it  was  dark  on  the  inter 
nal  side. 

There  followed  a  kind  of  interregnum  in  the  thought 
of  Mr.  Willis  —  a  brief  confusion  —  as  he  ceased  speak 
ing.  Then  he  found  himself  listening,  with  pauses  of 
the  breath  —  listening  upwards.  He  knew  that  his 
wife  was  in  the  room  above.  How  very  still  it  was  ! 
He  could  not  hear  a  sound  —  not  a  footfall,  or  a  move 
ment  of  any  kind.  A  weight  of  concern  dropped  sud 
denly  on  his  feelings.  Rising,  he  went  up  stairs,  op 
pressed  with  a  vague  uneasiness. 

"  Esther !  "  he  called,  on  opening  the  door  of  his 
wife's  room,  and  seeing  her  at  a  small  writing  table, 
with  her  face  bowed  down  and  hidden.  She  did  not 
stir  nor  answer.  "  Esther  !  "  There  was  alarm  in  his 
voice  now,  as  he  crossed  the  floor  quickly.  "  Esther  !  " 
he  repeated,  as  he  laid  his  hand  on  her.  But  there  came 
no  response.  He  tried  to  raise  her  head,  but  it  sunk 
down  from  his  imperfect  hold  ;  not,  however,  before  he 
had  seen  her  face,  that  was  pale  and  death-like.  Hte 
heart  gave  a  wild  bound  of  fear  as  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms,  and  carried  her  to  the  bed. 

It  was  only  a  fainting  fit ;  yet,  not  until  long  after 
the  physician's  arrival,  did  the  weary  soul  take  up  its 


IF    I    HAD    KNOWN    OF    THIS.      .  53 

burden  of  mortal  life  again,  and  then  only  with  a  feeble 
effort. 

To  the  husband's  anxious  inquiry  —  "  What  does  it 
mean,  doctor  ?  "  this,  at  first  scarcely  comprehended, 
answer  was  given  :  "  There  is  some  unsuppled  want  in 
her  life,  Mr.  Willis.  I  have  seen  it  for  a  long  time. 
There  are  natnres  which  cannot  live  on  bread  alone, 
and  her's,  I  think,  is  one  of  them.  If  you  can  discover 
and  supply  this  want,  well ;  if  not,  she  will  go  on 
drooping  and  failing.  A  little  while,  and  the  grass  will 
be  green  above  her." 

The  physician  understood,  in  part,  the  case,  and  this 
was  his  prescription  —  better  than  lancet  or  drug,  than 
pill  or  powder. 

Alone  with  his  half  unconscious  wife,  and  the  doctor's 
at  first  not  clearly  understood  warning  in  his  mind,  Mr. 
Willis  passed  the  night  that  followed  —  sleepless.  He 
was  wiser  before  the  day  dawned,  for  every  word  of 
that  unfinished  letter,  over  which  the  poor  wife's  heart 
and  strength  gave  way,  had  been  written  down  in  his 
brain.  It  was  read,  and  then  the  blotted  pages  laid  care 
fully  out  of  sight.  But  what  a  revelation  it  proved  ! 

"  If  I  had  known  of  this  !  "  How  many  times,  in 
the  long,  sleepless  hours  of  that  night  did  Henry  Willis 
thus  give  voice  to  his  concern, —  and  all  the  while  light 
came  stealing  into  his  mind  with  the  gradual  increase  of 


54  IF   I   HAD   KNOWN    OF    THIS, 

breaking  day.  u  Natures  that  cannot  live  on  bread 
alone."  Strange  words  when  spoken  by  the  doctor  ; 
but  now  full  of  meaning. 

Back  into  the  heart  of  this  man,  who  had,  for  a  few 
years,  lost  himself  amid  the  attraction  of  mere  sensuous 
things,  came  old  ideals  of  life — old  tendernesses — old 
appreciations  —  old  loves. 

"  I  have  been  too  hard,  and  coarse,  and  cold,  for  this 
purer  nature,"  he  said,  with  brimming  eyes,  as  he  bent 
over  the  low  breathing  sleeper,  and  looked  at  her  almost 
spiritual  face.  "  And  now,  if  I  would  keep  her,  I  must 
be  soft,  and  gentle,  and  warm.  Drifting,  drifting,  drift 
ing  away,  and  I  saw  it  not !  The  angel  of  my  home, 
with  wings  half  raised  to  depart,  and  I  dwelling  in  con 
scious  safety  !  " 

He  shuddered  as  he  realized  the  danger  that  im 
pended. 

The  day  had  broken,  and  now  the  morning  sunbeams 
were  looking  in  through  the  half-drawn  curtains  that 
shaded  the  windows  of  Mrs.  Willis's  bed-room.  Mr. 
Willis,  worn  out  with  the  night's  watching,  had  laid  his 
head  upon  a  pillow,  and  was  asleep.  In  the  long  rest 
of  exhausted  nature  the  wife  had  gathered  up  a  portion 
of  strength,  and  when  the  sunbeams  awoke  her,  she 
looked  around  in  bewilderment  of  mind.  Partly  rising 
on  one  arm,  she  saw  her  husband's  face  close  beside  her, 


IF   I   HAD   KNOWN   OF  THIS.  55 

on  the  very  pillow  which  had  supported  her  own  head. 
He  sat  in  a  chair,  with  his  clothes  on,  and  was  asleep. 

"  Henry  !  "  She  called  his  name,  putting  her  hand 
on  him  as  she  spoke.  Her  voice  and  touch  aroused  the 
sleeper. 

"  How  are  you,  darling?  "  He  was  wide  awake  in  a 
moment,  looking  at  her  with  tender,  yet  troubled  eyes, 

"  I'm  very  well.  What  has  been  the  matter,  Henry  ? 
Why  are  you  sitting  here  with  your  clothes  on  ?  Have 
I  been  sick  ?  "  Mrs.  Willis,  with  whom  memory  was 
becoming  active,  looked  from  her  husband's  face  to  the 
table  where  she  had  been  writing. 

"  You  had  a  fainting  spell,  dear,"  was  answered,  and 
as  Mr.  Willis  said  this,  he  pressed  his  wife  gently  back 
upon  the  pillow  from  which  she  had  arisen.  "  I  never 
dreamed  you  were  getting  so  weak.  But  I  see  it  all 
now.  We  strong,  rough  men,  don't  comprehend  every 
thing." 

A  soft  smile  went  faintly  over  the  pale  face  of  Mrs. 
Willis,  giving  it  a  sad  and  touching  beauty.  Her  silk 
en  lashes  fell  trembling  down  on  her  cheeks.  Her  wan 
lips  quivered.  Now  the  doctor's  admonition  came  in 
full  force  to  her  husband,  and  all  it  meant  was  appre 
hended.  He  felt  that  to  lose  her,  would  be  to  lose  that 
which  made  life  really  precious.  The  old  true  love, 
that  had  in  it  no  worklliness  —  that  was  so  full  of  sweet- 


56  IF   I   HAD   KNOWN   OF  THIS. 

ness  —  that  saw  its  object  as  an  embodiment  of  purity 
and  grace  —  was  revived  in  his  heart,  and  he  wondered 
how  it  could  ever  have  failed. 

"  As  soon  as  you  are  strong  enough,  Esther,  to  bear 
the  journey,  you  must  make  that  visit  to  your  mother. 
If  I  had  known — "  The  husband  checked  himself, 
for  this  was  betraying  the  fact  that  he  had  read  her  un- 
unfinished  letter. 

u  I  arn  strong  enough,  Henry."  Her  eyes  flashed 
open,  and  he  saw  rainbows  in  the  tears  that  gemmed  her 
lashes. 

"  You  want  to  see  your  mother  very  much  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Henry  !  "  The  wet  lids  quivered  and  closed. 
"  Three  years  is  a  long,  long  time,  Henry,"  she  mur 
mured,  with  her  eyes  still  closed. 

"  I  know  it  is  darling.  But  I  was  so  absorbed  in  my 
work  —  so  lost  in  business  and  plans  —  that  I  did  not 
enter  as  I  should  have  done,  into  your  feelings.  But  I 
see  it  all  now.  You  shall  go  home  at  once,  and  every 
year,  if  your  heart  desires  it. 

What  light,  and  warmth,  and  beauty,  came  into  the 
pale,  wasted  countenance ! 

"  You  are  very  good,  Henry ;  and  it  will  be  selfish 
in  me  to  leave  you,  even  for  a  short  time ;  but  I  am 
not  so  strong  as  I  was,  dear.  Somehow,  I  am  giving 
way  both  outwardly  and  inwardly.  For  the  whole  of 


IF  I   HAD   KNOWN   OF   TIIIS.  57 

last  year,  I  have  pined  to  see  my  old  home  —  to  lay  my 
head  against  my  mother,  and  to  feel  her  arms  around 
me.  I  could  not  help  it,  dear,  though  I  tried  hard. 
You  are  good  and  kind  ;  I  love  you  with  my  whole 
heart ;  and  I  ought  not  to  feel  as  I  have  felt." 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Willis  were  full  of  love  as  she 
looked  up  into  her  husband's  face. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  of  this  !  And  I  might  have 
known,"  was  the  self-condemning  answer. 

In  less  than  a  week  Mrs.  Willis  was  in  her  mother's 
arms.  Her  husband  stood  by,  comprehending  in  a 
slight  degree,  through  recently  obtained  perceptions, 
something  of  her  ineffable  joy.  She  was  passing  away 
from  him,  but  he  had  drawn  her  back. 

Thenceforth,  food,  other  than  natural  bread,  was 
given  for  the  sustenance  of  a  life  whose  wants  reached 
far  above  the  things  that  perish  in  the  using. 


58 


HE   CAME   IN   MERCY. 


VII. 

HE  CAME  IN  MERCY 

LM  Grove,"  nestling  against  the  side  of 
a  long  range  of  picturesque  hills,   that 
smiled  down  upon  the  fruitfulest  of  val 
leys,  was  a  thing  of  beauty  in  the  land 
scape.     Its  owner,  Martin  Lyle,  a  mer 
chant  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities,  had 
spent  a  third  of  his  fortune  in  the  pur 
chase  and  improvement  of  Elm   Grove, 
and  he  had  made  it  an  earthly  Paradise. 
Taste,  pride,  and  love  of  nature  had,  in  turn,  stimulated 
his  thoughts  and  moved  his  hand  in  the  work  of  adorn 
ment,  until  beauty   covered  all  things  like  a  garment. 
Business  became  a  secondary  interest  in  his  mind ;  love 
of  gain  burned  feebly  ;  trade  was  irksome ;  the  city  an 
offence.      And  so  Martin  Lyle  withdrew  from   active 
business  life,  and  retired  with  his  family  to  Elm  Grove. 
But  from  the  day  of  this  change  in  the  order  of  his 


HE    CAME   IN    MERCY.  59 

x  • 

life,  a  dimly  obscuring  veil  seemed  to  fall  on  every  thing 
around  him.  Elm  Grove  lost  beauty  in  his  eyes.  Mr. 
Lyle  moved  through  his  gardens  and  groves,  his  lawns 
and  summer-houses,  and  tried  to  force  enjoyment ;  but 
in  this  very  effort  interest  failed.  He  was  resting  for 
happiness  in  the  excellence  of  outward,  instead  of  in 
ward  life  ;  and  having  touched  the  outward  at  nearly  all 
desirable  points,  weariness  was  beginning  to  weigh  upon 
his  spirit. 

Mr.  Lyle  was  one  of  that  large  class  of  persons  who 
live  only  for  •  themselves  and  families.  Outside  of  his 
own  little  world,  he  had  few  interests.  He  was  a  useful 
man  so  long  as  he  engaged  actively  in  business  ;  for 
then,  in  the  ardor  of  self-service,  he  became  the  servant 
of  good  to  others  through  the  common  benefits  that  flow 
from  trade.  But  when  he  retired  from  business,  with 
the  end  of  simply  enjoying  himself,  he  became  a  arone 
in  society.  An  idler,  for  the  most  part,  suffering  the 
idler's  penalty  of  weariness  and  unrest. 

As  Mr.  Lyle  regarded  life,  so  it  was  regarded  by  his 
family.  They  did  not  consider  themselves  as  members 
of  the  common  body  in  the  degree  involving  mutual 
service.  To  receive  and  to  enjoy  included  their  whole 
philosophy.  The  use  of  such  talents  and  skill  as  they 
possessed  in  the  work  of  good  to  others,  was  a  thought 
which  had  never  come  into  their  minds.  Wealth  had 


60  .  HE   CAME  IN  MERCY. 

given  them  superiority  and  immunity ;  so  believing  and 
so  acting,  the  possession  of  wealth  was  hurtful  —  hurt 
ful  to  their  souls,  and  therefore  destructive  of  happi 
ness. 

Daily,  through  all  the  luxuriant  summer,  from  hun 
dreds  of  lips  fell  the  words,  "  How  beautiful !  "  And 
in  hundreds  of  hearts  a  pulse  of  envy  beat,  as  eyes 
dwelt  in  admiration  on  Elm  Grove  and  its  magnificent 
surroundings.  But  with  each  rising  and  falling  day  of 
that  fruitful  summer,  hearts  grew  more  and  more  shad 
owed  in  Elm  Grove.  It  had  not  fulfilled  the  enticing 
promise  that  lured  its  owner  away  from  the  city  and  its 
bustling  marts. 

But  separated  as  Mr.  Lyle  was  from  business,  no 
thought  of  going  back  found  place  for  a  moment. 
Relieved  from  that  perpetual  tension  of  mind  which 
always  accompanies  trade,  he  experienced  a  kind  of 
negative  enjoyment  in  his  comparative  idleness,  not  to 
be  willingly  exchanged  for  the  old  state. 

Before  removing  permanently  to  his  elegant  country 
home,  Mr.  Lyle  had,  during  several  years  of  carefully 
planned  culture,  made  everything  so  perfect  that  little 
remained  to  be  accomplished.  Fruition  was  now  to 
come.  But  it  was  inadequate  —  strangely  in  defect  of 
anticipation.  He  had  little  to  do,  for  all  was  done  ; 
and  it  is  in  doing  that  we  find  real  pleasure,  not  in  the 
contemplation  of  what  is  done. 


HE    CAME   IN   MERCY.  61 

One  day,  after  the  fields  had  given  their  harvests  to 
the  reapers  ;  after  the  trees  had  bestowed  their  fruit, 
and  the  vines  their  clusters,  in  the  late,  still  autumn 
time,  when  the  heart  grows  pensive  or  sad,  as  we  look 
on  decaying  nature,  Mr.  Lyle  sat  dreamily  gazing  forth 
upon  the  landscape.  He  was  alone,  and  had  been  alone 
for  some  time.  There  was  a  deeper  shadow  than  usual 
on  his  feelings  J  we  say  deeper,  meaning  to  convey  the 
impression  that  he  rested  now  under  a  shadow  all  the 
while.  A  step  approached,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  ob 
serve  the  presence  of  any  one.  A  hand  was  laid  upon 
his  shoulder.  He  turned,  slightly  starting,  and  said  : 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  Harriet  ?  " 

"  You  are  sober,  dear.  What  are  you  thinking 
about  ?  "  Mrs.  Lyle  sat  down  by  her  husband,  and 
looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  I  feel  sober,"  was  the  reply. 

"  What  is  there  to  shadow  your  feelings  ?  " 

Mr.  Lyle  shook  his  head,  and  murmured,  in  a  half 
absent  way :  "  Nothing." 

"  What  have  you  been  thinking  about  ?  "  Mrs.  Lyle 
repeating  her  first  question. 

"  About  many  things  that  I  do  not  see  clearly,"  he 
answered.  "  I'm  afraid,  Harriet,  that  I  have  not  under 
stood  life.  What  more  have  I  desired  than  this  ?  " 
and  he  swept  his  hand  and  eyes  around  the  meadows 


62  HE   CAME  IN   MERCY. 

and  woodlands  that  lay  within  the  compass  of  Elm 
Grove.  "  And  yet,  since  I  have  tried  to  enjoy  it  fully, 
I  seem  not  to  have  enjoyed  it  at  all." 

There  was  in  the  tone  and  expression  of  her  husband 
something  that  made  a  low  fear  creep  through  the  heart 
of  Mrs.  Lyle.  She  knew  that  he  had  not  been  happy 
since  his  withdrawal  from  business,  and  idle  life  at  Elm 
Grove ;  but  no  utterance  like  this  ha'd  before  given 
voice  to  a  disquiet  spirit.  What  answer  could  she  make  ? 
None  came  to  her  lips,  and  so  she  sat  in  silence,  gazing 
upon  his  shadowed  face,  and  into  his  strangely  altered 
eyes. 

"  I  put  my  heart  in  this."  And  again  he  swept  his 
hand  towards  the  scenery  that  surrounded  them.  "  I 
planned  for  years  our  paradise,  into  which  no  evil  thing 
was  to  intrude.  I  was  to  sit  down  among  its  beauties, 
no  man  being  my  peer  in  happiness.  But  there  was  an 
error  somewhere  in  my  calculation.  It  has  not  come 
out  as  I  expected.  Ah,  me  !  I  do  not  understand  my 
self  !  "  And  laying  his  head  down  in  his  hands,  he 
clasped  his  temples  and  sighed  heavily. 

Ah,  how  many  there  are  who,  like  our  retired  mer 
chant,  find  life  a  mystery  —  how  many  who,  like  him, 
in  summing  up  the  result  towards  which  they  have 
been  looking  with  hopeful  anticipations,  find  that  there 
has  been  an  error  in  the  calculation  ! 


HE   CAME  IN   MERCY.  63 

Mrs.  Lyle  sat  down  beside  her  husband,  strangely 
questioning  in  her  mind  as  to  the  state  into  which  he 
had  fallen,  and  unable  to  meet  it  by  a  single  rightly 
spoken  word.  She  drew  her  hands  within  one  of  his 
arms,  and  leaned  her  face  against  him.  A  great  sha 
dow  fell  upon  her ;  a  low  shudder  of  fear,  as  though  an 
invisible  danger  were  approaching,  crept  through  her 
heart. 

"  What  more  could  I  have  asked  ?  "  Mr.  Lyle  gave 
voice  to  his  thoughts  again.  "  I  have  made  of  Elm 
Grove  all  that  I  designed  —  all  that  fancy  pictured. 
It  is  perfect ;  and  yet,  day  by  day  enjoyment  wanes." 

But  his  wife  had  no  medicine  for  his  sick  soul.  Like 
him,  she  had  lived  only  in  the  outer  world ;  had  built 
only  on  the  foundations  of  natural  life. 

From  that  period  Mr.  Lyle  fell  into  a  listless,  dreamy 
state.  For  hours  every  day  he  would  sit  alone  ;  and  if 
intruded  upon,  show  signs  of  impatience.  All  interest 
in  Elm  Grove  departed  ;  yet  he  resisted  every  effort  of 
his  wife  and  daughters  to  gain  his  consent  to  a  removal. 
The  winter  that  followed  was  one  of  new  and  painful 
experiences  to  the  family.  Trouble  came  in  too  appal 
ling  shapes.  In  withdrawing  from  business,  Mr.  Lyle 
had  left  four-fifths  of  his  capital  in  the  firm,  besides  re 
taining  an  interest.  Through  bad  debts  and  failing 
speculations,  it  happened  that  the  entire  capital  was  lost. 


64  HE   CAME   IN  MERCY. 

The  balance  sheet  and  account  of  stock  taken  in  Janu 
ary,  revealed  a  startling  fact.  The  house  was  bankrupt ! 
The  announcement  of  this  disaster,  coming  as  it  did  up 
on  a  morbid  and  depressed  condition  of  mind,  swept 
away  the  already  wavering  reason,  and  Mr.  Lyle  float 
ed  helplessly  down  the  stream  of  life. 

It  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  deeper  despair  than  that 
into  which  Mrs.  Lyle  and  her  two  daughters  were 
suddenly  plunged.  They  had  not  been  -educated,  in 
any  thing,  for  a  trial  like  this.  In  the  darkness  that 
surrounded  them,  no  path  was  visible  ;  no  light  appeared. 
For  a  little  while  they  sat  down  with  folded  hands,  help 
less  and  hopeless. 

But  love  is  a  vital  thing  ;  and  love  soon  stirred  the 
thought  of  Mrs.  Lyle.  One  suggestion  after  another 
came  ;  and,  as  her  soul  sat  listening  in  the  silence  and 
darkness  in  which  it  dwelt,  she  heard  voices  never 
heard  before,  and  a  speech  full  of  new  and  inspiring  ut 
terances.  She  had  likewise,  faint  glimpses  of  an  inner 
world,  and  of  ends  and  deeds  in  life  based  on  higher 
principles.  Love  made  living  a  sense  of  duty.  In  her 
hour  of  extremest  weakness,  strength  was  born  —  born 
of  God's  spirit  as  it  moved  over  the  face  of  the  great 
deep  in  her  soul. 

The  form  of  Mr.  Lyle's  insanity  was  an  impassive, 
almost  lifeless  condition  of  mind.  There  were  no  lurid 


HE   GAME   IN   MERCY.  65 

gleams  of  blind  passion,  or  exhibition  of  a  strong  will 
in  a  wrong  direction.  He  was  harmless,  and  yielding 
almost  implictly  to  his  wife.  He  was  not,  therefore,  re 
moved  to  an  asylum. 

The  wreck  of  misfortune  was  complete.  Elm  Grove 
passed  into  other  hands,  and  the  family  came  back  to 
the  city ;  but  how  different  their  position  from  that  oc 
cupied  a  little  while  before.  Then  only  the  question 
of  how  to  enjoy  life  occupied  their  thoughts ;  now  it 
was  the  question  of  sustaining  life. 

Where  an  earnest  purpose  to  do  exists,  ways  and 
means  usually  appear,  though  not  always  in  the  direc 
tion  anticipated.  Not  only  did  light  come  to  the  mother 
in  darkness,  but  to  her  two  daughters,  Grace  and  Har 
riet,  also.  They  had  minds  and  hands  ;  and  as  by  these 
others  did  useful  service  in  the  world,  through  which 
sustenance  of  life  came,  might  not  they  do  useful  service 
also  ?  The  question  was  not  long  in  gaining  an  affirma 
tive  answer.  Their  father's  helplessness,  and  their 
mother's  years,  were  an  ever  present  motive.  Love 
moved  them  to  action,  and  ere  a  twelvemonth  passed 
from  the  time  they  went  forth  shuddering  into  the 
world  from  their  Eden  at  Elm  Grove,  they  were  bring 
ing  in  full  sheaves  from  their  fields  of  labor,  and  laying 
them,  in  tears  of  hope  and  thankfulness,  on  the  thresh 
ing  floojr  of  home. 


66  HE   CAME   IN   MERCY. 

A  new  sphere  of  life  was  gradually  developed  from  a 
new  order  of  life  in  the  stricken,  but  closer  bound  fam 
ily.  The  light  which  had  shone  in  upon  them,  when  all 
was  dark,  and  the  voices  with  new  utterances  which 
had  come  to  them  in  the  silence  of  their  despair,  contin 
ued  to  shine  with  increasing  brightness,  and  to  speak  in  a 
more  emphatic  language.  They  saw  into  a  new  world 
of  thought  and  motive,  and  understood  life  from  higher 
principles.  Existence  had  gained  a  new  signification. 

How  tenderly,  how  devotedly,  how  yearningly  did 
they  minister  to  that  beloved  one,  who  had  been  strick 
en  in  the  prime  of  manhood.  All  they  had  lost  of 
worldly  good  and  worldly  possession,  was  as  nothing  to 
their  loss  of  his  clear  reason  and  loving  consciousness ; 
and  with  the  care  and  tenderness  of  a  mother  seeking 
to  touch  the  springs  of  thought  in  her  infant,  did  they 
seek  to  awaken  in  his  mind  the  orderly  activities  of  a 
conscious  soul.  And  their  loving  care  did  not  lie  fruit 
less.  Oh,  with  what  thrills  of  genuine  pleasure  did 
they  hail  the  first  signs  of  returning  reason  !  How  toil 
grew  light,  and  self-denial  easy,  as  they  saw  scale 
after  scale  drop  away  from  his  eyes,  and  his  vision  grow 
clearer  and  clearer. 

There  was  a  new  element  in  the  life  of  this  family  upon 
which  rested  their  higher  development.  Misfortune  is  a 


HE   CAME  IN   MERCY.  67 

wise  teacher  ;  but  unless  God  is  acknowledged  in  mis 
fortune,  and  the  soul  accepts  the  wisdom  that  comes 
from  God,  the  teaching  but  little  avails.  It  availed 
here,  because  the  new  element  of  religious  trust  found 
an  abiding  place  with  Mrs.  Lyle,  and  passed  by  spiritual 
transfusion  to  the  hearts  of  her  daughters.  There  had 
been  loss  and  gain ;  but,  in  adjusting  the  account,  how 
largely  proved  the  gain. 

One  day,  it  was  nearly  two  years  from  the  time  when 
darkness  fell  upon  them  so  suddenly,  Mrs.  Lyle  entered 
a  room  where  Grace,  her  oldest  daughter,  sat  alone. 
She  held  a  note  in  her  hand,  and  also  a  newspaper. 
Grace  looked  up  with  a  quiet  smile  on  her  womanly 
face. 

"  This  is  from  Henry  Lardner,"  said  Mrs.  Lyle,  hold 
ing  out  the  note. 

Instantly  a  warm  flush  mantled  the  daughter's  brow. 

"  He  is  worthy,  my  child,  and  I  cannot  answer  nay." 
Mrs*  Lyle  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  and  then  received 
the  hidden  face  on  her  bosom. 

"  A  sad  thing  has  happened,"  said  Mrs.  Lyle,  a  little 
while  afterward.  "  A  very  sad  thing." 

"  What  ?  "  A  shadow  fell  over  the  glowing  counte 
nance  of  Grace. 

Mrs.  Lyle  opened  the  newspaper  in  her  hand  and 
read : 


68  HJS    CAME    IN    M£RCY. 

"  Theodore  Flemming  was  arrested  at  his  home  last 
evening,  charged  with  participation  in  a  system  of  gigan 
tic  frauds  against  the  customs  revenue.  The  proofs  of 
his  complicity  are  ample.  He  has  only  been  married  a 
few  months  to  the  daughter  of  a  prominent  citizen.  The 
circumstance  has  deeply  shocked  our  community. " 

Mrs.  Lyle  looked  up  as  she  finished  reading.  The 
countenance  of  Grace  was  deadly  pale. 

44  My  daughter!  "  she  said,  dropping  the  paper  and 
drawing  an  arm  around  Grace  ;  44  Theodore  Flemming 
is  nothing  to  you !  " 

44  Nothing,  mother,"  was  calmly  answered.  44  Noth 
ing  now.  When  misfortune  fell  upon  my  life,  he  turned 
away  coldly,  and  made  his  promise  false.  Oh,  thank 
God  for  misfortune  !  " 

44  Yes,  thank  God,  my  child  !  His  ways  are  in  the 
dark ;  they  are  past  finding  out ;  but  His  steps  are  sure. 
He  comes  to  us  ever  in  mercy,  leading  us  by  ways  that 
we  know  not." 

The  door  opened,  and  the  placid  face  of  a  man  looked 
in.  It  was  the  face  of  Mr.  Lyle,  in  which  the  light  of 
reason  shone  —  not  with  the  strong  light  as  of  old,  but 
steady  and  full  of  promise. 

44  Have  you  heard  the  news  about  Flemming  ?  "  he 
asked. 

44 1  was  just  reading  it  to  Grace,"  replied  Mrs.  Lyle. 


HE    CAME    IN    MERCY.  69 

For  a  few  moments  he  looked  curiously  and  half  in 
doubt  at  Grace.  Then  crossing  the  room,  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  head,  uttered  these  words  : 

"  We  shall  see  it  all  clear  enough  by  and  by,  darling. 
God  is  good,  and  will  make  it  plain.  It  seems  to  be 
coming  out  right,  as  mother  said  it  would  come,"  glanc 
ing  with  a  look  of  loving  confidence  towards  his -wife. 
"  I  thought  it  would  have  killed  me,  when  the  blow 
came.  Ah  well,  dear  !  Never  mind.  There's  some 
thing  good  in  store  for  us." 

And  there  was,  in  a  truer,  higher,  and  more  heavenly 
life,  into  which,  by  daily  duties,  they  entered  more  and 
more.  They  had  gone  down,  as  into  the  valley  and 
shadow  of  death  ;  and  now,  rising  on  the  other  side, 
were  already  ascending  the  mountains,  in  whose  far- 
reaching  summits  angels  have  their  dwelling  places. 
Yes,  God  in  his  providence  had  come  to  them  in  mer 
cy  ;  and  while  removing  the  foundations  on  which  their 
house  was  builded,  and  letting  the  fair  structure  fall 
into  hopeless  ruin,  was  spreading  beneath  them  His 
everlasting  arms.  He  cast  down  that  he  might  raise 
them  up  again  ;  He  wounded  to  heal ;  shadowed  their 
natural  lives,  that  he  might  open  to  them  the  windows 
of  Heaven,  and  flood  their  souls  with  the  marvelous 
radiance  of  the  upper  world. 

Wealth  never  came  back  to  them,  nor  did  the  mind 


70  HE   CAME   IN   MERCY. 

of  Mr.  Lyle  gather  up  its  full  strength  again.  But 
sweet  peace  dwelt  with  them,  as  in  patience  and  loving 
self-devotion  they  builded  new  dwelling-places  for  the 
soul,  against  which  earthly  storms  might  beat  in  vain, 
for  they  w.ere  founded  on  a  rock. 


ONE    DAY   AT   A    TIME. 


71 


VIII. 

ONE  DAY  AT  A  TIME. 


NE  neighbor  dropped  in  upon  another. 
*  "  Are  you  sick,  Mrs.  Carson  ?  "  ask 
ed   the   visitor,    on    meeting   a   pale, 
troubled  face. 

"  Sick  at  heart,  Mary,"  was  an 
swered,  gloomily.  Not  even  the  ghost 
of  a  smile  became  visible. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "     The  visitor's  coun 
tenance  brightened. 

Mrs.  Carson  looked  half  surprised  and  half  offended. 
"  I  don't  know  any  worse  sickness,"  -she  said,  rather 
fretfully. 

"  That  depends  on  the  origin  and  nature  of  the  dis 
ease,"  replied  the  friend.  "  There  is  a  heart-sickness, 
which  is  unto  death ;  but  I  take  it  that  yours  is  of  a 
milder  type,  having  its  origin  among  life's  petty  annoy- 


72  ONE    DAY   AT   A    TIME. 

ances,  or  it  may  be  in  its  more  sober  disappointments ; 
in  tilings  common  to  us  all,  yet  borne  in  so  many  differ 
ent  ways." 

Mrs.  Carson  sighed  heavily.  There  was  a  leaden 
weight  on  her  bosom.  Reason  assented  to  her  visitor's 
suggestions,  but  oppressed  feeling  held  her  in  painful 
bondage. 

"  What  troubles  you  to-day  ?  Why  are  you  so  much 
cast  down  ?  "  asked  the  visitor.  "  But  this  may  be  an 
intrusion." 

Mrs.  Carson  did  not  answer  immediately.  Her 
dreary  eyes  rested  on  the  floor  ;  her  hands  lay  idly  in 
her  lap ;  she  was  the  picture  of  despondency.  At 
length,  she  said : 

44  Owing  to  changes  in  business,  my  husband  must 
give  up  his  situation.  A  dissolution  in  the  firm  throws 
him  out.  To-morrow  he  leaves  his  place,  with  no  pros 
pect  of  another.  What  are  we  to  do  ?  We've  saved 
nothing.  How  could  we,  on  so  light  an  income." 

44  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,"  answered  the  lady.  "  Very 
sorry." 

"  Could  anything  be  more  gloomy  or  discouraging  ? 
Can  you  wonder  that  I  am  in  trouble  ?  " 

44 1  do  not  wronder  that  you  are  concerned  about  the 
future,  Mrs.  Carson.  That  is  a  natural  result.  But  I 
cannot  see,  in  the  event,  any  reason  why  you  should 


ONE    DAY    AT    A   TIME.  74 

sit  down  with  folded  hands,  and  make  yourself  miser 
able.     Mr.  Carson  is,  of  course,  troubled." 

"  You  may  well  say  that.  He  took  scarcely  a  mouth 
ful  of  breakfast  this  morning." 

"  On  him  rests  the  heaviest  part  of  this  burden.  He 
must  provide  and  maintain  a  home  for  his  wife  and  chil 
dren.  I  sympathize  with  him  from  my  heart." 

"  It's  seeing  him  so  cast  down  that  makes  me  so 
wretched,"  said  Mrs.  Carson.  "  If  he  were  cheerful 
and  hopeful,  I  could  take  heart." 

"  Perhaps,  in  thought,  he  is  saying  the  same  thing  of 
you." 

A  flash  of  surprise  came  into  Mrs.  Carson's  face. 
The  suggestion  of  her  friend  went  home. 

"  When  did  he  tell  you  of  this  ?  " 

"  Last  night.  I  saw  that  something  was  troubling 
him,  and  urged  him  to  say  what  it  was.  Then  he  told 
me." 

"  How  did  you  receive  the  announcement  ?  " 

Mrs.  Carson  was  silent. 

"  Bravely,  as  a  wife  should,  when  she  sees  trouble 
approaching  her  husband,  or  in  weakness  and  tears  ?  " 

"  In  weakness  and  tears.  I  make  you  this  confes 
sion." 

"  Did  that  help  him  any  ?  Did  that  make  his  trouble 
lighter?" 

4 


74  ONE   DAY   AT   A   TIME. 

"  No,  no,  my  friend.  While  telling  me  of  the  change, 
he  mingled  hopeful  words  in  his  sentences.  But  after 
wards  he  sat  silent  and  gloomy  through  all  the  eve 
ning." 

"  And  you  ?  " 

"  Cried  myself  almost  sick." 

"  And  sat  opposite  to  him,  at  breakfast  time  this 
morning,  with  a  rueful  visage.  No  wonder  he  had  no 
appetite." 

"  No  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Carson,  repeating  the  words 
to  herself.  "  That  was  not  well,  at  least." 

"  And  should  not  be  repeated." 

"  It  shall  not  be  repeated,  Mary.  Poor  man  !  He 
has  enough  to  bear,  without  the  dead  weight  of  my  des 
pondency." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Mrs.  Carson.  Now 
you  are  coming  towards  the  right  way  of  thinking. 
We  have  only  to-day,  and  in  every  to-day  we  shall  find 
the  elements  of  peace,  if  we  will  search  for  them  ;  and 
the  elements  of  disquietude  as  well.  To  accept  the  one, 
and  reject  the  other,  is  to  be  wise.  Last  evening  you 
cast  aside  your  husband's  hopeful  words,  and  drew 
around  both  his  heart  and  yours  a  pall  of  despondency. 
This  morning  your  state  was  unchanged,  and  you  let 
him  go  forth  for  the  day  doubly  weighted.  My  friend, 
this  was  not  well.  Now,  I  pray  you,  limit  thought  and 


ONE   DAY   AT    A   TIME.  75 

duty,  as  far  as  in  you  lies,  to  this  one  day  which,  in 
God's  providence,  is  yours.  You  have  a  pleasant  home, 
children,  a  husband.  There  is  not  a  single  external  ele 
ment,  in  all  appertaining  to  your  to-day,  that  is  not  fa 
vorable  to  peace  of  mind.  When  to-morrow  becomes 
to-day,  will  the  change  be  marked  ?  I  think  not.  You 
will  still,  I  trust,  have  your  home,  food,  raiment,  your 
children  and  your  husband,  and  God's  promise  to  those 
who  do  their  duty  in  singleness  of  heart.  What  if  your 
husband's  hands  are  idle  for  a  short  time  ?  What  if  the 
way,  looking  weeks  or  months  in  advance,  does  not  seem 
clear  ?  Your  to-day  is  all  bright,  if  you  will  but  have 
it  so.  The  sun  shines,  the  heart  beats,  God's  provi 
dence  is  not  hindered.  You  may  be  in  peace,  if  you 
will  do  your  best  to  secure  peace." 

The  friend  departed,  leaving  Mrs.  Carson  in  a  better 
frame  of  mind,  and  with  her  thoughts  flowing  in  the 
right  direction.  "  One  day  at  a  time.  One  day  at  a 
time,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  her  hands  took  hold  upon 
the  duties  of  the  hour.  "  Ah  !  if  we  could  so  live,  how 
tranquil  all  might  be.  Even  in  this  feeble  effort,  my 
heart  has  a  calmer  beat.  I  did  not  believe  in  the  possi 
bility  of  a  change  such  as  I  feel.  One  day  at  a  time  !  " 

She  lingered  on  the  suggestion,  drawing  out  more  and 
more  distinctly  many  of  the  things  it  involved,  and  see 
ing  more  and  more  clearly,  how  it  lay  at  the  basis  of  all 
right  living  and  true  enjoyment. 


76  ONE    DAY    AT   A   TIME. 

Relieved,  in  a  great  measure,  from  its  burden  of  de 
spondency,  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Carson  lifted  itself  into  a 
region  of  clearer  light,  and  became  busy  with  ways  and 
means  adapted  to  the  change  which  had  taken  place  in 
their  circumstances.  Instead  of  remaining  with  folded 
hands,  in  terror  of  approaching  ills,  or  dwelling  in  vague 
apprehensions,  she  let  hope  gain  entrance  ;  and  hope 
had  good  words  to  say. 

Slowly,  in  the  dimly  closing  twilight,  a  man  walked, 
with  eyes  upon  the  pavement  —  walks  with  bowed  head 
and  stooping  shoulders  ;  he  was  bending  under  a  heavy 
weight.  One  week  ago,  the  same  man  walked  in  the 
twilight,  with  head  erect,  and  quickly  falling  footsteps, 
almost  impatient  to  reach  his  home.  Then,  he  looked 
for  a  smiling  welcome  and  loving  words  ;  now,  as  thought 
reached  forward,  he  saw  only  clouds  and  tears.  His 
heart  was  cheerful  then,  but  heavy  now.  Suddenly, 
his  path  had  been  crossed  by  a  mountain  range  that 
looked  impassable.  For  himself,  he  might  gird  his  loins, 
and  bravely  move  to  the  ascent ;  but,  she  who  must 
walk  by  his  side  through  smiling  landscapes,  or  amid 
toilsome  acclivities,  had  sunk  down,  overcome  by  weak 
terrors ;  and  with  this  added,  how  was  he  to  ad 
vance  ?  Brave  enough  to  face  the  mountain,  with  its 
sky-reaching  cliffs  and  snowy  summits,  if  his  way  must 
be  over  its  barrier,  and  strong  enough  to  support  his 


ONE   DAY  AT   A   TIME.  77 

companion,  if  she  put  forth  what  strength  was  given,  he 
was  not  able  to  carry  her  as  a  dead  weight.  And  this 
it  was  that  bowed  his  head  and  saddened  his  spirit,  as  he 
lingered,  with  slow  steps,  in  the  falling  shadows,  and 
dreaded  the  arrival  at  home. 

Mr.  Carson's  hand  rested  for  some  moments  on  the 
door,  before  he  found  heart  to  push  it  open.  Night  had 
fallen  without ;  but  a  darker  night  seemed  waiting  for 
him  within  —  a  night,  the  blackness  of  which  no  lamp 
rays  could  penetrate.  Usually,  he  shut  the  door  after 
him  with  a  quick,  strong  hand,  that  announced  his  en 
trance  in  echoes  from  the  farthest  chambers,  and  made 
the  stairs  musical  with  the  patter  of  little  feet ;  now  it 
was  closed  so  noislessly,  that  only  the  alert  ears  of  Mrs. 
Carson  noted  his  coming. 

"  There's  your  father,"  she  said  to  three  little  ones 
who  had  gathered  about  the  centre  table,  under  a  gas 
lamp,  one  with  her  doll,  and  two  with  picture  books, 
and  then  there  was  a  scampering  down  stairs,  and  a 
jangling  of  young  voices,  sweet,  if  discordant.  The 
mother  heard  only  the  sound  of  kisses  in  response.  The 
father's  voice,  lately  so  full  of  glad  welcomes,  as  he 
opened  his  arms  for  his  babies,  was  silent  now.  What 
a  change !  And  yet  so  far  as  every  external  element 
of  happiness  was  concerned,  no  new  condition  existed. 
There  was  no  evil  in  the  present.  Food  and  raiment, 


78  ONE   DAY   AT   A   TIME. 

light  and  warmth,  health  —  all  that  they  could  appropri 
ate  was  in  equal  abundance  now  as  before.  It  was  the 
shadow  of  some  imagined  evil  in  the  future,  which 
might  never  come,  that  shut  the  sunlight  from  their 
hearts  —  which  might  never  come,  or,  coming,  change 
to  good  in  the  day  of  its  advent. 

Mr.  Carson  entered  the  room  where  his  wife  sat,  bear 
ing  one  child  in  his  arms,  while  two  clung  to  him,  in 
laughing  efforts  to  impede  his  progress.  The  old  wel 
coming  smile  was  on  her  face,  not  so  bright  nor  so  hap 
py,  but  fuller  of  tenderness.  How  like  a  flash  its  re 
flected  rays  drank  up  the  shadows  from  his  eyes  and 
brow.  He  could  not  help  stooping  over  and  kissing  her 
with  unwonted  fervor.  She  felt  it,  in  a  sweet  thrill, 
down  to  her  heart.  They  were  drawing  closer  together. 

"  You  have  changed  since  morning,"  said  Mr.  Car 
son,  soon  after,  as  the  children  resumed  their  toys  and 
picture  books,  laying  his  hand  on  his  wife's  head  as  he 
spoke,  and  looking  into  her  calm  eyes  almost  wonder- 
ingly. 

"Havel?" 

"  Yes.     What  has  brought  this  change  ?  " 

"  Right  thinking,  perhaps." 

"  What  have  been  your  thoughts  ? 

"  To-day  is  ours,  and  only  to-day. 

"  Only  to-day,"  said  Mr.  Carson  echoing  the  words 
of  his  wife. 


ONE   DAY   AT  A    TIME.  79 

"  Is  it  wise  to  throw  aside  the  good  things  of  to-day, 
because  in  doubt  as  to  the  future  ?  To  shut  our  win 
dows,  and  refuse  to  let  to-day's  sunshine  enter  our 
dwellings,  because  there  are  signs  of  a  storm  to-mor 
row  ?  " 

"  No,  it  is  not  wise,"  answered  the  husband. 

"  So  I  have  thought,  and  so  thinking,  I  have  been 
striving  to  keep  myself  in  the  present,  and  amid  the  du 
ties  and  blessings  that  crowd  the  passing  hours.  All  is 
well  with  us  to-day  —  all  has  been  well  with  us  so  far 
in  life  ;  and  if  changes  and  trials  are  to  come,  will  not 
strength  as  we  need  be  given  ?  " 

"  Surely  it  will,  dear  wife  !  "  said  Mr.  Carson.  "  I 
cannot  express  the  feeling  of  relief  your  language  gives. 
Yes,  yes.  Let  us  take,  in  all  our  to-days,  the  good 
things  God  has  provided.  Hitherto  they  have  been  in 
full  measure.  If  diminished  from  this  time,  as  to  what 
is  external  and  material,  may  we  not  have  an  increase 
of  our  internal  pleasures  ?  I  do  not  think  we  have  been 
a  great  deal  happier  since  a  better  income  enabled  us  to 
rent  this  larger  house,  and  to  possess  costlier  furniture." 

"  Just  the  conclusion  of  my  own  mind,"  answered  the 
wife.  ;t  I  know  we  were  as  happy  —  sometimes  I  have 
thought,  happier  —  in  that  cosy  little  house  where  the 
first  six  years  of  our  wedded  lives  were  spent.  And 
now  that  you  have  alluded  to  this  humble  condition,  I 


80  ONE   DAY    AT   A   TIME. 

will  say  what  further  has  been  in  my  thoughts.  Let  us 
go  back  to  the  same  condition,  and  thus  reduce  our  ex 
penses  to  the  old  rate.  In  a  smaller  house,  I  can  get 
along  well  enough  with  a  single  servant,  and  not  have 
to  work  any  harder  than  I  do  now.  This  will  be  acting 
right  in  the  present  —  doing  to-day  what  seemeth  best 
—  and  I  think  we  shall  find  the  way  before  us  growing 
smooth  to  our  feet,  though  it  look  so  rough  and  so  thorny 
in  prospective." 

"  Comforter  !  —  consoler  !  —  strengthener  !  "  said  Mr. 
Carson,  giving  way  to  a  gush  of  feeling.  His  voice  was 
half-choked  and  his  eyes  glistened.  "  One  hour  ago,  I 
was  wretched.  Now  I  am  hopeful,  resigned,  peaceful. 
The  high  mountain  across  my  path,  that  seemed  impass 
able,  has  sunk  to  a  little  hill.  When  our  feet  begin  the 
ascent,  we  shall  not  find  the  way  so  very  difficult ;  and 
strength  will  come  in  the  hour  of  need." 

And  it  came  as  he  had  prophesied.  The  lesson  and 
the  experience  of  that  day  and  evening  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Carson  were  so  full  of  instruction,  that  they  could  not 
be  forgotten.  In  present  right  thinking  and  acting  —  in 
taking  each  day  as  it  came,  and  accepting  the  good  it  had 
to  offer  —  they  found  tranquility  of  mind  ;  but,  in  all 
variations  from  this  rule  of  life  —  in  all  weak  yielding?? 
to  doubt  and  fear  —  in  all  helpless  breedings  over  com 
ing  ill  —  they  were  led  into  darkness,  self-torments, 


ONE   DAY    AT   A  TIME.  £1 

wretchedness.  One  day  at  a  time  —  taking  and  using 
the  good  it  had  to  offer,  and  bearing  patiently  its  ills  — 
this  was  the  better  life  they  sought  to  live  ;  and  though, 
for  some  years  afterwards,  their  way  in  the  world  was 
through  obscure  places,  where  the  humbler  move,  they 
found  as  sweet  flowers  to  give  the  air  perfume,  and  as 
soft  and  green  a  turf  for  their  feet,  as  had  ever  delight 
ed  them  in  more  prosperous  seasons. 


82 


THE   ANGEL-SISTER. 


7W 


IX. 


THE  ANGEL-SISTER. 

LMOST  a  woman  !  "  says  Mrs.  Way- 
land  glancing  after  her  daughter,  who 

WaS  ^eavmS  tne  room-  And  then  she 
sighed  ;  and  her  eyes  looked  dreamily 
inward  ;  and  she  sat  very  still,  like 
one  asleep. 

Almost   a   woman  !     Yes ;  Lucy's 
slender  form  had  sprung  up  rapidly  in 
the  past  year,  and  her  limbs  and  bust 
had  rounded  into  beautiful  symmetry. 

What  was  in  the  mother's  thoughts  that  she  sighed  ? 
Did  she  fear  for  the  woman's  life  of  her  darling  ?  Had 
her  own  experiences  been  so  sad  that  she  could  not  look 
with  sunny  hope  into  the  future  of  her  child  ?  Not 
that.  The  sigh  had  another  meaning.  Always  she 
saw,  moving  beside  Lucy,  another  form,  growing  as  she 
grew,  and  reaching  with  her  toward  the  sweet  ripeness 


THE   ANGEL -SISTER.  83 

•» 

of  womanhood ;  and  the  sigh  was  for  that  form,  be 
cause  to  all  but  herself  it  was  invisible.  Just  five 
years  before  that  form  of  a  twin-sister  vanished  from 
her  home  and  was  seen  not  there  again. 

"  If  Mary  had  not  died  !  "  Ah,  did  she  ever  look 
at  Lucy  that  these  words  came  not  to  shadow  her  feel 
ings  ?  "  If  Mary  had  not  died,"  followed  like  a  spectre, 
the  sentence  :  "  Almost  a  woman  !  " 

"  What  a  loss  to  poor  Lucy  !  "  So  ran  her  thoughts 
as  she  sat  very  still,  like  one  asleep  under  the  pressure 
of  feeling.  "  Mary  would  have  been  every  thing  to 
her.  Sister,  companion,  friend,  counsellor,  comforter. 
Now  she  must  go  forth  in  life  alone.  No  sister  to  stand 
by  her  side  and  make  her  strength  double  in  trial ;  for 
that  she  will  have  in  full  measure.  It  comes  to  all." 

"  How  differently  she  would  have  developed,"  went 
on  the  mother,  in  her  thoughts,  "  If  Mary  had  not  died  ! 
There  was  just  enough  of  dissimilarity  in  their  charac 
ters  to  give  life,  actionx  and  harmony  to  both.  Mary 
was  quieter  and  graver  ;  she  would  have  matured  fast 
er  ;  all  the  better  for  Lucy.  Ah,  it  was  a  loss  that 
must  ever  be  felt  as  irreparable.  Why  do  such  things 
happen  ?  It  is  of  Providence,  they  say,  and  for  the 
best.  I  can  not  see  it."  And  Mrs.  Wayland  sighed 
heavily. 

"  Dear,  angel  Mary  !  "    she   went  on.     "  How   the 


84  THE    ANGEL-SIoTER. 

light  faded  when  your  life  went  out !  How  the  music 
ceased  when  your  voice  grew  silent !  I  can  never  see  it 
to  be  right ;  never,  never.  Poor  Lucy  !  I  wonder 
sometimes  that  she  can  be  so  gay  of  heart.  If  she  com 
prehended  her  loss  as  I  comprehend  it,  she  would  hard 
ly  smile  again.  The  time  will  come  when  her  heart 
will  cry  out  in  its  loneliness,  pain,  or  sorrow, —  '  Oh  my 
'sister  !  Why  were  you  taken  from  me  ?  ' 

As  she  thus  mused  and  murmured,  the  Angel  of 
Sleep  laid  her  soft  touch  on  the  mother's  heavy  eyelids, 
and  her  spirit  went  away  into  the  land  of  dreams.  It 
was  with  her  now  as  of  old.  Side  by  side  walked  her 
twin  children  through  the  sunny  chambers  of  her  home, 
and  their  blending  voices  made  music  for  her  heart  all 
the  day  long.  Swiftly  the  years  went  by.  Up  from 
blossomy  girlhood  they  passed  to  ripe  young  woman 
hood  ;  and  then  came  young  wooers  to  win  them  away 
from  her,  and  bear  them  off  to  other  homes.  Mary 
went  first,  and  to  a  far  distance.  A  thousand  miles 
were  stretched  between  them.  Then  Lucy  laid  her 
hand,  lovingly  and  trustingly,  into  the  hand  of  one  who 
promised  to  make  all  her  life  rich  with  blessing.  She 
did  not,  like  Mary,  go  afar  off,  but  kept  near  her  old 
home. 

The  years  came  and  went,  bringing  their  burdens  of 
care  and  their  lessons  of  disappointment.  Lucy  had  a 


THE    ANGEL-SISTER.  85 

large  share  of  these,  and  under  the  burdens  she  bent 
wearily  and  often  in  pain. 

"  If  Mary  were  only  here  !  If  I  could  listen  to  her 
voice  !  If  I  could  lean  my  head  upon  her  as  of  old  !  " 

How  often  she  said  this  sadly  and  tearfully.  But 
Mary  was  far  away  sighing  over  her  own  depressing 
cares,  or  fainting  amidst  her  trials.  Nor,  if  distance 
had  been  removed,  would  the  presence  of  Mary  have 
given  either  strength  or  comfort,  for  she  stood  in  need 
of  both  for  herself.  They  might  have  wept  together, 
and  there  would  have  been  a  sad  pleasure  in  this ;  but 
in  suffering  both  had  grown  selfish,  and  asked,  but  had 
nothing  to  give. 

Then  a  deeper  trouble  came  to  Lucy.  Death  stole 
silently  into  her  home  at  evening  after  the  sun  went 
down,  and  when  the  morning  broke  one  whose  life-pulses 
had  taken  their  beat  from  her  own  was  not.  Bowing 
down  her  head,  she  refused  to  be  comforted. 

"  Oh,  if  Mary  were  only  here  !  "  said  the  mother,  as 
she  went,  almost  in  despair,  from  the  chamber  where 
Lucy  sat  in  marble-like  stillness.  "  If  Mary  were  only 
here  !  Her  voice  would  find  its  way  to  her  heart ;  her 
words  would  come  to  her  in  consolation." 

A  letter  was  placed  in  her  hands.  It  was  from  Mary. 
She  opened  it  and  read  : 

"  Dear  Mother, —  Baby  is  dead,  and  my  heart  is  broken  !  Will  you 
not  come  to  me  ?  " 


86  THE   ANGEL   SISTER. 

44  Only  a  dream  !  "  said  a  soft,  low  voice,  musically. 

The  mother  looked  up  and  saw  before  her  a  woman, 
whose  calm  face  and  loving  eyes  made  her  think  of  the 
eyes  and  face  of  an  angel.  A  deep  peace  fell  upon  her 
spirit. 

"  Only  a  dream  of  what  might  have  been,  if  Mary 
were  not  in  heaven  !  " 

A  thrill  of  pleasure  ran  through  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Way  land,  and  she  lifted  her  soul  in  thankfulness. 
"  Baby  is  dead,  and  my  heart  is  broken ! "  No,  no. 
That  piercing  cry  would  never  come  from  her  lips. 

And  now  the  old  life  goes  on,  but  with  a  change  that, 
while  it  is  wonderful,  excites  no  feeling  of  wonder  in 
the  mind  of  Mrs.  Wayland.  In  thought  she  had  al 
ways  seen  the  dead  twin-sister  moving  beside  the  living 
twin-sister,  like  a  shadowy  phantom.  Now  she  was 
near  her  like  a  living  presence,  full  of  life  and  tender 
love,  yet  visible  to  no  mortal  eyes  but  the  mother's. 
Sleeping  or  waking,  she  was  always  near  to  Lucy,  but 
nearest  in  sleep,  and  most  watchful.  Her  influence 
over  her  was  almost  inperceptible,  but  certain  as  the  in 
fluence  of  dew  and  sunshine  upon  the  earth.  Mrs. 
Wayland  noted  it  from  day  to  day  in  pious  thankful 
ness. 

"  God  has  not  separated  them,"  she  said,  "  but  made 
of  one  a  guardian  angel  to  the  other.  How  passion  and 


THE   ANGEL-SISTER.  87 

selfishness,  after  darkening  the  fair  horizon  of  her  mind 
for  a  little  season,  pass  away  like  threatening  clouds 
under  the  influence  of  right  thoughts  and  gentle  affec 
tions,  which  glide  into  her  mind  and  heart  from  the  soul 
of  her  angel-sister  !  Dear  Mary  !  Oh  if  I  could  take 
you  into  my  arms  !  If  I  could  hold  you  to  my  bosom, 
what  infinite  joy  would  be  mine  !  When  Lucy  weeps, 
what  loving  sympathy  softens  all  your  heavenly  counte 
nance,  and  how  closely  you  draw  near  her  !  When  she 
is  tempted,  your  lips  approach  her  ears  with  words  of 
strength  and  assurance.  I  see  daily  the  wonder-working 
power  of  your  presence  over  her.  Not  dead  and  ab 
sent  !  Oh  no.  But  living  and  present ;  present  in 
greater  power,  and  for  higher  good,  than  is  possible  in 
any  mortal  nearness." 

V 

And  so  life  went  on  from  day  to  day,  and  from  year 
to  year,  the  angel-sister  always  intimately  present,  and 
visible  only  to  the  mother's  eyes.  Then  Lucy  went 
out  from  her  home  a  bride,  and  in  the  years  that  fol 
lowed  came  trials  and  sorrows  such  as  had  never  sha 
dowed  her  heart  even  dimly  in  imagination ;  such  trials 
and  sorrows  as  come  to  all  in  some  degree.  Yet  never,  in 
all  these  years,  was  Mary  afar  off,  but  always  intimate 
ly  near ;  with  aid  in  trial,  strength  in  weakness,  and 
comfort  when  the  heart  was  bowed  down,  and  the  eyes 
wet  with  tears.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  how,  like  the 


88  THE   ANGEL-SISTER. 

influence  of  some  magic  spell,  the  presence  of  Mary, 
unseen  and  unknown,  would  change  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  of  Lucy,  and  bring  her  mind  from  darkness  in 
to  light.  Often  at  these  times  Lucy  would  lift  her  eyes 
upward,  and  murmur  some  words  from  the  Book  of 
books,  the  memory  of  which  her  angel-sister  had  un 
covered. 

Once,  overcome  with  weariness,  Lucy  had  fallen 
asleep  with  her  baby  in  her  arms.  Mary  was  always 
most  watchful  over  her,  as  we  have  said,  in  sleep.  So 
now  she  drew  closer,  and  her  eyes  did  not  wander  a 
moment  from  the  faces  of  the  babe  and  its  mother. 
Soon  there  came  a  shade  of  concern  in  the  calm  face  of 
the  angel-watcher,  as  if  danger  were  approaching  ;  but 
she  did  not  look  up  nor  around.  Now,  with  a  feeling 
of  terror,  Mrs.  Wayland  saw  a  hideous  serpent  come 
stealing  in  through  the  open  door.  She  could  not  move 
nor  cry  out,  but  sat  powerless,  as  in  a  frightful  night 
mare.  Gradually  it  approached  the  unconscious  sleep 
ers,  its  head  erect  and  its  venomous  eyes  glaring  in  fiery 
eagerness.  Then  the  guardian's  lips  bent  down  to 
the  ears  of  Lucy  and  awakened  her  with  a  dream.  She 
sprang  up  with  a  cry,  clasping,  as  she  did  so,  her  baby 
to  her  bosom.  The  danger  was  past.  She  did  not 
even  know  that  there  had  been  danger,  for  the  serpent, 
the  instant  she  moved,  glanced  from  the  room  like  light 
ning. 


THE   ANGEL-SISTER.  89 

At  another  time  Lucy  was  riding  with  her  husband 
along  a  road  that  lay  upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 
The  slightest  fbrgetfulness  or  want  of  care  in  driving 
might  prove  fatal.  Just  as  they  were  approaching  a 
narrow  point  where  the  wheels  must  come  within  a  few 
inches  of  the  unguarded  edge,  Mrs.  Wayland  noticed  a 
dark,  shadowy  form  close  to  Lucy's  husband,  whisper 
ing  in  his  ear,  and  gaining  his  attention.  His  hand,  in 
forgetfulness,  let  the  reins  fall  loose,  and  the  carriage 
wavered  from  the  arrowy  line  in  which  it  had  been  mov 
ing.  But  the  angel  saw  the  fiend,  who  fled  at  a  glance 
from  her  glittering  eyes,  and,  on  his  guard  again- in  an 
instant,  the  driver  passed  the  dangerous  place  in  safety. 

"  Thank  God  for  such  wonderful  care  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Wayland,  in  her  heart.  Thus  Lucy  was  protected 
through  the  mediation  of  her  sister,  as  well  as  strength 
ened  and  comforted. 

At  last  the  trouble  of  all  troubles  for  a  mother's  heart 
came.  A  little  one,  that  had  become  as  a  part  of  her 
life,  came  down  with  its  tender  feet  to  the  brink  of 
Death's  river.  Was  there  no  eye  to  pity,  and  no  hand 
to  save  ?  Lucy  was  wild  with  fear  and  anguish,  and  in 
the  bitterness  of  her  suffering  prayed  for  the  life  of  her 
child.  In  all  these  hours  of  pain  the  angel-sister  stood 
bending  over  her  —  now  with  a  hand  on  her  throbbing 
temples,  now  with  her  head  drawn  lovingly  against  her 


90  THE    ANGEL-SISTER. 

bosom,  and  now  breathing  into  her  ears  precious  truths 
for  consolation.  That  all  this  was  not  in  vain  the  mother 
saw  ;  for  calmer  states  would  supervene,  and  periods  of 
deep  tranquillity  follow  upon  wild  excitement. 

At  last  the  shadowy  curtain  fell  on  the  brief  drama 
of  that  young  child's  life,  and  for  a  time  Lucy  refused 
to  be  comforted,  shutting  her  ears  to  all  the  words  of 
healing  that  friends,  seen  and  unseen,  could  offer.  She 
called  God  cruel  for  taking  her  babe. 

The  day  which  dawned  on  that  night  of  sorrow, 
when  the  baby  went  up  to  heaven,  passed  heavily  away, 
and  still  the  stricken  mother  turned  herself  from  all 
who  tried  to  lift  her  thoughts  toward  the  eternal  man 
sions.  Darkness  fell  upon  nature  again,  and  in  the  still 
ness  that  followed,  Lucy  slept.  Mrs.  Wayland,  to 
whose  eyes  the  form  of  Mary  was  always  visible,  now 
saw  her  weaving  a  dream  for  the  inner  eyes  of  the 
sleeper.  It  was  to  her  as  a  representation.  First  ap 
peared  to  the  sorrowing  mother  a  green  bank,  dotted 
over  with  flowers.  Around  the  foot  a  pleasant  stream 
twined  its  clear  waters  like  a  silver  cord.  Next  appeared 
children  on  the  bank  with  garlands  of  flowers,  sporting 
with  each  other.  They  were  the  happiest  children  she 
had  ever  looked  upon.  As  she  gazed  she  heard  music, 
and  the  words  of  singers  : 

"  He  leadeth  them  beside  still  \vaters." 


THE    ANGEL-SISTER.  91 

"  And  this  is  heaven  !  "  said  the  mother,  in  her 
dream. 

"  Yes,"  said  a  beautiful  maiden,  in  shining  white 
garments,  coming  to  her  side.  "  This  is  heaven  ;  and 
these  are  the  little  ones  whom  the  loving  Father  of  us 
all  has  translated  from  a  world  of  sorrow  and  pain  to 
this  world  of  blessedness." 

"  I  have  lost  a  child  !  "  The  sorrowing  mother  spoke 
eagerly.  "  A  little  while  ago  I  looked  my  last  on  his 
dying  face.  Oh,  is  my  child  here  ?  My  precious 
child !  " 

"  Come,"  said  the  maiden.  The  scene  changed. 
They  were  in  a  beautiful  apartment,  the  halls  of  which 
were  of  gold  and  all  precious  stones,  that  shone  re- 
splendently.  Soft,  silvery  curtains,  floating  in  the  per 
fumed  air,  hung  over  and  around  a  bed  of  downy  soft 
ness.  Sitting  by  this  bed,  and  bending  over  it  in  an 
attitude  of  loving  care,  bent  another  maiden  of  won 
drous  beauty.  The  mother  drew  near.  A  babe  was 
lying  on  the  bed  ;  her  own  lost  darling  ;  she  knew  him 
at  a  glance ! 

"  You  have  come  for  him  ?  "  said  the  maiden,  look 
ing  up  into  the  mother's  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  can  not  part  with  my 
baby.  I  must  have  him  back  again." 

An  expression  of  regret  dimmed  the  angel  brightness 


92  THE    ANGEL-SISTER. 

of  the  maiden's  countenance.  But  she  bent  over  the 
child,  and  lifting  him  gently,  laid  her  lips  upon  his  fore 
head  with  a  kiss  of  the  tenderest  love.  Then  placing 
him  in  the  mother's  arms,  she  said, 

"  Take  him  back  to  sorrow,  to  suffering,  and  to  pain. 
But  oh,  guard  him  from  the  evil  that  will  gather  around 
his  way  in  life,  and  see  that  through  no  fault  of  yours 
he  miss  the  way  to  these  heavenly  mansions." 

The  mother  clasped  her  baby  to  her  heart  in  a  wild 
pressure  of  joy,  and  then  handing  him  back,  said, 

"No  —  no  —  no!  That  is  too  fearful  to  think  of! 
Thanks  to  God  he  is  safe  —  safe  !  " 

And  Lucy  awoke. 

"  Yes,  thank  God  he  is  safe  !  "  -trembled  on  her  lips 
as  consciousness  grew  clear. 

"  Mother,  dear !  "  It  was  the  soft,  girlish  voice  of 
Lucy.  Mrs.  Wayland  started  from  her  dream,  and 
looked  at  her  in  bewilderment  for  some  moments. 

u  You  have  been  asleep,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Yes,  love  ;  but  I  am  .awake  now." 

She  meant  more  than  her  words  conveyed  to  Lucy, 
as  the  reader  may  believe.  "  If  Mary  had  not  died  !  " 
never  again  parted  her  lips  in  murmuring  rebellion 
against  that  wise  and  good  Providence  without  which 
not  a  sparrow  falls. 


OUR   DAILY   BREAD. 


X. 

OUR  DAILY  BREAD. 


EAR  little  Charley !  His  thought 
seems  always  to  rise  above  the  visible 
and  tangible.  He  is  my  teacher,  often, 
in  that  wisdom  which  is  not  of  this 
world.  He  sat  very  still  in  his  chair, 
this  morning,  after  family  worship.  I 
looked  at  his  sober  countenance,  and 
wondered  what  could  be  passing  in  his 
busy  little  brain. 

"  Mother  !  "  He  was  by  my  side,  gazing  up  into  my 
face. 

"  Well,  dear  ?  " 

"  What  kind  of  bread  is  daily  bread  ?  " 

"  Bread,"  I  answered,  "  means  all  kinds  of  nourish 
ing  food  that  give  life  to  our  bodies." 

"  Then  why  do  we  pray  for  it  every  morning  ?     Our 


£1  OUR  DAILY   BREAD. 

bread,  and  meat,  and  sugar,  and  coffee,  are  all  in  the 
house  before  we  pray."  Charley  looked  puzzled. 

"  True,  dear,"  I  said  ;  "  but  in  thus  praying,  we  ac 
knowledge  our  dependence  on  God,  who  is  the  Giver  of 
all  good.  It  is  his  rain  and  sunshine  that  make  the 
fields  fruitful." 

"  Don't  it  mean  something  else,  mother  ?  Isn't  there 
some  other  kind  of  bread  ?  " 

I  looked  down  into  dear  Charley's  eyes.  There  was 
a  holy  mystery  in  their  crystalline,  yet  unfathomable 
depths.  Something  else  ?  Another  kind  of  bread  ? 
O  yes  ;  it  did  mean  something  else.  There  was  anoth 
er  kind  of  bread.  But  I  did  not  always  think  of  this. 

"  We  have  souls  as  well  as  bodies,"  said  I.  A  flush 
of  interest  went  over  his  face.  He  leaned  up  closer  to 
me.  I  saw  deeper  down  into  the  mystery  of  his  eyes  ; 
yet  were  they  still  unfathomable. 

"  There  is  a  life  of  the  soul,  or  spirit,  as  well  as  a  life 
of  the  body."  I  saw  that  he  comprehended  me.  "  And 
to  feed  these  two  lives,  there  must  be  two  kinds  of  food 
—  natural  food  and  spiritual  food;  food  for  the  body 
and  food  for  the  soul." 

"  Is  that  the  bread  of  heaven  we  read  about  in  the 
Bible  ?  "  asked  Charley. 

"  Yes,  dear ;  the  food  on  which  angels  live." 

"  And  will  God  give  us  angels'  food,  when  we  ask 


OUR   DAILY    BREAD.  95 

for  our  daily  bread  ?  "  His  eyes  brightened,  and  a  sun 
beam  shone  out  from  his  soul  through  the  transparent 
tissues  of  his  face. 

"  The  Lord  has  said  :  Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given  you," 
was  the  reply  that  came,  spontaneously,  to  my  lips.  He 
sat  very  still  and  quiet  for  several  minutes ;  then  shut 
his  eyes,  while  a  look  of  heavenly  trust  and  sweetness 
pervaded  his  face.  His  lips  moved  ;  I  bent  my  ear  to 
listen,  and  the  words  fell  from  them  like  incense  — 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread." 

I  would  have  caught  and  hugged  him  to  my  heart ; 
but  dared  not  distiirb  the  holy  state  of  innocent  faith 
in  God.  I  did  what  was  better ;  offered  up  the  same 
prayer,  and  in  the  same  spirit  —  thinking  of  food  for  the 
soul,  instead  of  food  for  the  body  —  angels'  food. 

On  that  morning  I  had  risen  with  a  heavy  pressure 
over  my  left  eye,  and  a  dim  sense  of  floating  in  my 
brain  —  the  two  well-known  precursors  of  a  sick  head 
ache,  and  consequent  day  of  nervous  irritation,  disabil 
ity  and  trial.  Much  more  did  I  stand  in  need  of  spirit 
ual  than  of  natural  food ;  of  the  bread  that  endureth 
unto  eternal  life,  than  of  the  bread  that  perisheth  in  the 
using.  Never  before,  with  so  clear  a  comprehension  of 
its  higher  meaning,  had  I  asked  for  daily  bread  ;  for  that 
spiritual  food,  by  the  nourishing  power  of  which  I  was 
to  have  strength  to  do  my  duty. 


06  OUR    DAILY    BREAD. 

I  kissed  my  darling  boy  with  a  tenderer  kiss  than  1 
had  left  there  for  a  long  time,  and  arose  to  take  up  my 
burden  of  care  and  work  for  the  day.  I  needed  all 
that  higher  strength  for  which  I  had  prayed. 

There  are  days  in  our  life,  in  which  it  seems  that 
everything  gets  at  cross  purposes  ;  and  this  was  one  of 
them  for  me.  My  sick  headache  increased  with  its  slow 
but  steady  accumulations  of  pain,  rendering  me  more 
fitted  for  bed  than  for  the  duties  that  were  before  me. 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school."  The  words  smote  on 
my  ear,  and  sent  a  throb  to  my  sensitive  brain  ;  for  I 
understood  too  well  the  trouble  that  was  at  hand.  My 
little  daughter  Mary  fell,  sometimes,  into  perverse  hu 
mors  ;  and  this  morning  the  evil  spirits  of  resistance  and 
disobedience  had  found  a  way  of  entrance  into  her  heart. 
Her  "  I  don't  want  to  go  to  school,"  meant  that  she 
didn't  intend  going,  unless  forced  to  do  so.  Nothing 
short  of  actual  punishment  had  usually  prevailed  with 
her  on  these  occasions.  For  a  few  moments  an  impulse 
of  anger  blinded  me.  It  was  on  my  lips  to  say,  in  a 
sternly  commanding  voice  — 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  go,  Miss!"  But  I  checked 
the  words.  A  thought  of  Charley,  and  the  daily  bread 
for  which  we  had  prayed,  flashed  through  my  mind,  and 
I  lifted  my  heart  to  God  with  a  new  repetition  of  my 
want,  clothed  in  ideas  of  higher  signification.  I  asked 


OUR   DAILY    BREAD.  97 

for  spiritual  strength  in  my  time  of  trial ;  for  all  that  I 
needed  to  give  me  power  for  right  action.  What  a  calm 
fell  instantly  on  my  spirit.  The  hard,  passionate  state 
passed ;  and  I  felt  tender  and  loving  toward  my  self- 
willed  child.  Taking  her  by  the  hand,  I  said,  in  a  low, 
quiet  voice  — 

"  Mary,  dear." 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  mine  with  a  sudden  glance  of 
inquiry.  The  petulance  and  resistance  were  already  be 
ginning  to  die  around  her  mouth.  I  sat  down,  still 
holding  her  by  the  hand. 

"  Put  your  fingers  there,  dear."  And  I  laid  them 
against  my  left  temple. 

"  Press  hard,  dear." 

She  pressed  her  small  hand  against  the  throbbing  ar 
tery  that  lies  there  close  upon  the  surface. 

"  Do  you  feel  it  beat  ?" 

«  Yes,  mother." 

"  Every  pulse,  my  child,  that  lifts  itself  against  your 
finger,  is  for  me  a  stroke  of  pain." 

"  O,  mother."  Pity  and  sympathy  were  in  her  gen 
tle  face. 

"  I  have  a  sick  headache  to-day." 

"  I'm  so  sorry."     And  she  kissed  me  lovingly.     I  re 
turned  the  kiss,  and  then  said  — 
5 


98  OUR   DAILY   BREAD. 

"  Get  ready  for  school,  dear,  as  quietly  as  possible ; 
and  be  a  good  little  girl.  Every  noise  or  trouble  dis 
turbs  me  this  morning,  and  makes  my  head  ache  worse." 

She  kissed  me  again,  repeating,  "  I'm  so  sorry  ;  " 
and  then  got  ready  for  school,  and  went  off  without  a 
murmur. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,"  came  almost  tear 
fully  from  my  heart,  in  a  thankful  acknowledgment  for 
strength  received,  and  in  prayer  for  coming  needs. 
'  Ill-natured  complaints,  and  irritating  neglects  from 
domestics,  came  next  in  my  round  of  trials.  Dear  Char 
ley  was  by  my  side,  a  sweet  reminder  of  duty.  The 
prayer  for  daily  bread  went  up  from  my  heart ;  and  the 
answer  came  in  strength  to  do  and  say  the  right.  I  was 
able  to  possess  my  soul  in  peace. 

Something  went  wrong  with  my  husband.  He  came 
home  at  dinner-time  with  a  frown  on  his  face.  He 
scarcely  looked  at  me  when  he  came  in,  and  hardly  spoke 
to  the  children.  I  had  been  at  some  pains  to  prepare 
him  a  favorite  dish ;  and  knew  that  it  was  nicer  than 
usual.  But  he  eat  of  it  without  a  remark,  and  pushed 
his  plate  from  him  after  he  had  finished,  with  an  air  of 
indifference  that  hurt  and  annoyed  me.  I  was  on  the 
point  of  saying  something  that  would,  I  doubt  not,  have 
provoked  a  wounding  answer,  when  a  glance  at  Char- 


OUR  DAILY   BREAD.  99 

ley's  face,  and  a  thought  of  my  morning's  experiences, 
kept  back  the  words. 

"  He  wants  other  food  than  that,"  I  said  within  my 
self,  "  for  his  nourishment  and  sustenance  to-day  ;  the 
daily  bread  of  which  dear  Charley  spoke." 

How  instantly  did  all  my  feelings  change  toward  him. 
The  selfish  annoyance  and  hardness  went  out  of  my 
heart.  I  said  — 

"  Lord,  give  him  the  daily  bread  for  which  his  soul 
is  hungering  ;  the  strength  he  needs  in  trial." 

His  eyes  turned,  as  if  moved  by  some  sudden  impulse, 
to  my  face. 

"  You  look  pale,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  Are  you  not 
well?" 

"  Not  very  well.  This  is  one  of  my  sick  headache 
days."  I  had  to  speak  low  to  keep  my  voice  steady. 
Tears  were  coming  into  my  eyes  ;  aifcl  I  could  not  hold 
them  back. 

My  husband  glanced  at  his  empty  plate,  and  then  to 
the  dish  from  which  he  had  helped  himself  in  silence. 
I  knew  what  was  in  his  thoughts.  JJJS  better  man  had 

O 

been  restored. 

"  You  should  not  have  done  this,"  he  said.  "  But 
you  are  always  so  thoughtful." 

He  arose  from  the  table  ;  came  round  to  where  I  sat, 


100  OUR  DAILY   BREAD. 

and  laying  his  hand  over  my  hot  temples,  drew  my  head 
back  against  his  bosom,  and  kissed  me.  I  shut  my  eyes 
to  hold  in  the  tears ;  but  they  ran  down  over  my  cheeks, 
and  I  felt  my  lips  quivering.  But  I  was  happy.  Oh, 
very  happy ;  and  in  thankfulness  of  heart  sent  up  the 
prayer  —  "  Lord,  evermore  give  us  this  bread." 


ALWAYS  IN  SUNSHINE. 


101 


XL 

ALWAYS  IN  SUNSHINE. 

HERE  are  men  who  always  come  to 
you  in  sunshine  ;  and  there  are  men 
whose  presence  you  feel  as  a  shadow. 
It  is  ever  so,  meet  them  when  and 
where  you  will  —  at  home,  in  the 
street,  on  'Change,  in  the  store,  office, 
or  counting-room  —  there  is  ever  the 
radiant  sunshine  or  the  projected  sha 
dow. 

As  men  are,  so,  in  the  main,  will  you  find  their 
homes.  The  man  who  turns  his  face  always  to  the 
light  brings  his  warm  and  genial  sphere  into  his  home- 
circle  ;  while  the  man  whose  back  is  to  the  sun  never 
enters  the  door  of  his  dwelling  without  throwing  a 
shadow  over  the  household. 

My  Uncle  Florian  was  a  man  whose  spirit  seemed  to 
know  perpetual  sunshine.  I  never  saw  a  cloud  in  his 


102  ALWAYS    IN    SUNSHINE. 

face  ;  I  never  knew  his  coming  to  shadow  the  heart  of 
even  a  little  child.  Dear  Uncle  Florian  !  What  a  rare 
pleasure  it  was  when,  leave  obtained,  I  turned  my  steps 
lightly  from  the  shadowed  house  where  my  early  years 
were  spent,  and  came,  for  a  brief  season,  into  the  bright 
ness  of  thy  beloved  presence  ! 

"Ah!  Hattie  dear,  is  this  you?"  Memory  will 
never  lose  the  echo  of  his  pleasant  voice  as  he  greeted 
my  coming  ;  nor  do  I  feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand 
lighter  now  upon  my  head  than  it  was  thirty  years  ago, 
when  it  buried  itself  among  the  golden  curls  of  child 
hood. 

My  aunt  was  not  so  cheerful  in  spirit  as  Uncle  Flo 
rian.  She  was  more  inclined  to  look  upon  the  dark  side 
of  things,  and  to  prophecy  evil  instead  of  good.  But 
Uncle  Florian  never  permitted  the  clouds  to  darken  the 
whole  sweep  of  her  horizon.  If  he  could  not  always 
scatter  the  leaden  mass  of  vapor  he  would  break  it  into 
rifts,  and  let  in,  here  and  there,  broad  strips  of  sun 
shine. 

Children  are  always  children  —  thoughtless,  given  to 
fits  of  passion,  disobedient  in  little  things,  inclined  to 
selfishness.  I  give  the  picture's  shadowed  side.  My 
cousins  were  no  exception.  Children  are  not  born 
angels ;  they  come  to  us  in  the  natural  plane  of  life, 
and  receive  by  inheritance  natural  inclinations,  which 


ALWAYS    IN    SUNSHINE.  103 

unhappily,  ever  show  a  downward  proclivity.  But  the 
germs  of  angelic  life  are  in  the  inmost  of  their  being, 
and  the  wise  parent  gives  loving  yet  earnest  heed  to  the 
insemination  of  these,  which  is  done  by  the  awakening 
of  gentle,  tender,  unselfish  affections,  and  the  storing  up 
of  good  and  true  principles  in  the  mind. 

My  cousins  were  like  other  children  ;  and  their  moth 
er,  like  too  many  mothers,  weakly  indulgent  at  times, 
and  passionate,  unreasonable,  and  exacting  at  other 
times.  Ill  health  —  the  curse  of  American  mothers  — 
made  her  often  fretful,  and  dimmed  her  vision  when  she 
looked  out  upon  life. 

I  remember  one  June  day  that  I  spent,  as  a  great 
privilege,  at  Uncle  Florian's.  I  did  not  ask  of  my  fath 
er  the  privilege,  for  I  feared  his  universal  u  No."  But 
after  he  had  gone  forth,  I  enticed,  with  childish  art, 
my  weak,  unhappy  mother  into  consent.  Quietly,  al 
most  demurely,  fearing  to  show  any  exuberant  feelings, 
I  stole  out  from  my  shadowed  home ;  and  when  once 
fairly  beyond  the  gate,  and  across  the  road  into  the 
green  fields,  I  flew  over  the  intervening  distance  with 
the  tremulous  joy  of  an  uncaged  bird. 

"  Ah,  Hattie,  dear  !  "  It  was  the  kind  voice  of  Un 
cle  Florian.  I  met  him  at  the  gate,  surrounded  by  my 
cousins.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  my  head  as  usual,  and 
stooped  to  receive  my  kiss. 


104  ALWAYS    IN    SUNSHINE. 

"  How  are  father  and  mother  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  thank  you." 

Ah,  but  it  was  not  well  with  them.  Why,  in  my 
childish  ignorance,  I  knew  not.  But,  somehow,  my 
father  always  came  to  us  in  shadow.  His  presence 
hushed  the  sports  of  his  children.  Our  home  rarely 
knew  the  blessing  of  cheerful  sunshine. 

"  Take  good  care  of  Hattie,  dears,"  said  Uncle  Flor- 
ian,  with  a  beaming  countenance,  as  he  turned  from  the 
gate  ;  "and  make  this  day  in  her  life's  calendar  a  gold 
en  one. 

And  it  was  a  golden  one,  as  were  all  the  days  I  ever 
spent  at  Uncle  Florian's.  Yet  was  not  the  day  all 
cloudless.  It  was  more  shadowed,  perhaps,  than  any 
day  I  had  ever  spent  with  my  cousins,  who  were,  as  I 
have  said,  like  other  children,  given  to  fits  of  passion, 
and  swayed  by  the  sudden  impulse  of  selfish  feelings. 
Several  times  Aubry,  the  oldest  of  my  cousins,  who 
seemed  for  awhile  possessed  with  a  teasing  spirit,  wor 
ried  his  gentle  sister  Marion  into  tears,  and  sadly  marred 
our  pleasure.  He  would  not  go  away  and  find  his  own 
enjoyment,  but  kept  with  us  nearly  all  the  morning,  for 
no  other  reason,  it  seemed,  than  to  gratify  an  unamiable 
temper. 

At  dinner-time  —  Uncle  Florian  had  gone  to  the  city, 
and  would  not  return  until  towards  evening  —  Marion 


ALWAYS  IN   SUNSHINE.  105 

complained  bitterly  of  Aubry's  conduct,  and  my  aunt 
scolded  sharply.  The  boy  did  not  receive  his  mother's 
intemperately  spoken  reproof  in  a  very  good  spirit,  and 
was  sent  from  the  table  in  consequence  of  a  disrespect 
ful  word  dropped  thoughtlessly  from  his  lips  —  a  word 
repented  as  soon  as  uttered,  and  which  a  wiser  reproof 
on  his  mother's  part  would  not  have  provoked. 

I  tasted  no  more  food  after  Aubry  was  sent  from  the 
table. 

"  Your  father  shall  hear  of  this  ! "  said  my  aunt 
sternly,  as  Aubry  left  the  room. 

My  cousin  did  not  trouble  us  again  during  the  re 
mainder  of  the  day.  I  met  him  several  times,  but  he 
did  not  look  cheerful.  His  own  thoughts  were,  I  saw, 
punishing  him  severely.  A  restless  spirit  kept  him 
wandering  about,  and  doing  all  kinds  of  out  of  the  way 
things.  Now  you  would  see  him  turning  the  grindstone 
vigorously,  though  no  one  held  axe  or  knife-blade  upon 
the  swiftly  revolving  periphery  :  now  he  was  on  the  top 
of  a  hay-mow  ;  now  climbing  the  long,  straight  pole 
that  bore  up  the  painted  bird-box,  to  see  if  the  twitter 
ing  swallow  had  laid  an  egg  ;  and  now  lying  upon  the 
grass  in  restless  indolence. 

Crash  !  What  is  that  ?  The  boy  had  found  his  way 
out  upon  the  branch  of  one  of  his  father's  choice  plum 
trees,  which  had  only  this  year  come  into  bearing,  and 
5* 


106  ALWAYS   IN   SUNSHINE. 

was  laden  with  its  first  offerings  of  half-ripe  fruit.  His 
weight  proved  too  heavy  for  the  slender  limb,  and  now, 
torn  from  his  hold  upon  the  tree,  it  lay  in  ruin  upon 
the  ground. 

Aubry  was  unhurt.  In  falling  he  had  alighted  upon 
his  feet.  But  if  his  body  had  escaped  without  harm, 
not  so  his  mind ;  for  he  comprehended  in  an  instant  the 
extent  of  injury  sustained  by  his  father's  favorite  tree 
—  a  tree  to  which  two  years  of  careful  attention  had 
been  given,  and  to  the  ripening  of  whose  choicely  fla 
vored  fruit  that  father  had  looked  with  so  much 
pleasure.  The  shape  of  the  tree  was  also  a  matter  of 
pride  with  Uncle  Florian.  He  had  pruned  it  for  two 
seasons  with  a  careful  attention  to  symmetry  as  well  as 
fruit-bearing,  and  I  had  more  than  once  heard  him 
speak  of  its  almost  perfect  form. 

Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  my  cousin  Aubry  as  we 
came  up  to  where  he  stood  gazing  sadly  upon  the  brok 
en  limb.  My  aunt  had  heard  the  crash  and  fall,  and 
came  running  out  from  the  house  with  a  frightened  air. 
The  moment  she  comprehended  the  nature  of  what  had 
occurred  she  struck  her  hands  together  passionately,  and 
stung  the  already  suffering  mind  of  the  boy  with  sharp, 
reproving  words.  Aubry  made  no  answer.  The  pain 
he  felt  was  too  severe  to  find  much  accession  from  this 
cause  ;  though  any  added  pang  was  cruelty,  no  matter 
from  what  source  it  came. 


ALWAYS  IN   SUNSHINE.  107 

"  If  it  had  been  any  other  tree,"  said  Aubry.  I  was 
sitting  by  his  side,  trying  to  comfort  him,  an  hour  after 
the  accident.  "  If  it  had  been  any  other  tree  I  would 
not  have  cared  so  much.  But  father  valued  this  one  so 
highly.  It  was  his  favorite  tree. 

"  He  will  not  be  angry."  I  was  thinking  how  very 
angry  my  own  father  would  have  been  under  like  cir 
cumstances,  and  how  severely  he  would  have  punished 
my  brother  had  he  been  guilty  of  a  similar  fault.  "  He 
is  always  so  cheerful  —  always  so  ready  to  forgive." 

"  It  isn't  that,  cousin  Hattie  —  it  isn't  that,"  answered 
the  boy,  in  a  troubled  voice.  "  It  is  not  his  anger  I 
fear." 

"  What,  then,  have  you  to  fear?  "  I  inquired. 

"  His  sorrow,  cousin.  Ah,  Hattie  !  that  is  worse 
than  his  anger.  He  took  so  much  pride  in  this  tree  ; 
and  now  it  is  ruined  forever !  " 

"  Only  a  single  limb  is  broken.  The  tree  is  not  de 
stroyed.  There  is  much  fruit  on  it  still,"  I  said  trying  to 
comfort  him. 

44  It's  beauty  is  gone,"  replied  Aubry.  "  That  beau 
ty  which  father  produced  by  such  careful  pruning.  No, 
Hattie ;  there  is  no  bright  side  to  the  picture.  All  is 
dark." 

It  was  in  vain ;  we  could  not  comfort  the  unhappy 
boy,  who  spent  the  rest  of  the  day  alone,  brooding  over 
the  event  which  had  so  troubled  his  peace. 


108  ALWAYS   IN   SUNSHINE. 

"  There's  your  father,"  I  heard  my  aunt  say,  a  little 
before  sundown.  She  was  speaking  to  Aubry,  and  her 
voice  had  in  it  neither  encouragement  nor  comfort. 
The  breaking  of  the  tree  had  excited  her  anger,  and 
she  still  felt  something  of  unkindness.  I  looked  from 
the  window  and  saw  Uncle  Florian  alighting  from  his 
horse.  His  face  was  turned  towards  us  —  his  kind, 
good  face,  that  always  looked  as  if  the  sun  were  shining 
upon  it.  Aubry  arose  —  he  had  been  sitting  by  a  table, 
with  a  dejected  air,  his  head  resting  upon  his  hand  — 
and  went  out  hastily  to  meet  his  father. 

"  I  hope,"  said  my  aunt,  "  that  he  will  give  him  a  good 
scolding  ;  he  richly  deserves  it.  What  business  had  he 
to  climb  into  that  tree,  and  out  upon  so  slender  a 
limb  ?  " 

I  felt  an  almost  breathless  interest  in  the  meeting  be 
tween  my  cousin  and  Uncle  Florian.  I  had  never  seen 
that  mild  face  clouded,  but  I  was  sure  it  would  be  cloud 
ed  now.  How  could  it  help  being?  ,His  countenance 
as  he  stood  with  his  hand  resting  upon  the  neck  of  his 
horse,  was  still  turned  towards  us,  and  I  could  see  every 
varying  expression.  My  breathing  was  nearly  suspend 
ed  as  I  saw  Aubry  reach  his  father  and  look  up  into 
his  face.  A  little  while  he  talked  to  him,  while  Uncle 
Florian  listened  attentively.  Every  instant  I  expected 
to  see  the  cloud,  but  it  came  not  to  dim  the  light  of 


ALWAYS   IN   SUNSHINE.  109 

cheerful  kindness  in  that  almost  angelic  countenance. 
While  Aubry  yet  talked,  earnestly,  to  his  father,  one  of 
the  farm  hands  came  out  from  the  stable  and  took  the 
horse.  Then  the  two  —  father  and  son  —  came  towards 
the  house  ;  and  as  the  former  commenced  speaking,  in 
answer  to  the  communication  which  he  had  received,  I 
noticed  that  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  Au 
bry  in  an  affectionate  way,  and  drew  him  close  to  his 
side.  They  passed  near  the  broken  plum  tree,  but  nei 
ther  looked  at  it.  I  think  Uncle  Florian  avoided  a 
sight  which,  just  then,  could  hardly  have  been  without 
an  unpleasant  shock  to  his  feelings. 

Now,  as  ever,  dear  Uncle  Florian  came  in  sunshine  ; 
and  it  was  warm  enough  and  bright  enough  to  chase 
away  coldness  and  shadow  even  from  the  heart  and 
brow  of  my  aunt,  who  could  not  forgive  the  offence  of 
her  boy. 

For  every  one  my  good  uncle  had  a  smile  or  a  pleas 
ant  word.  If  in  degree  there  was  a  difference,  it  was 
in  favor  of  Aubry,  who  seemed  held  to  his  father's  side  by 
some  irresistible  attraction.  Instead  of  separating  be 
tween  him  and  his  father,  I  think  that  little  unpleasant 
event  drew  them  nearer  together,  and  bound  their  hearts 
closer  by  the  magic  tie  of  love. 

As  I  turned  my  face  homeward  that  evening  I  felt 
that  I  had  turned  it  away  from  the  sunshine  ;  and  so  it 


110  ALWAYS  IN   SUNSHINE. 

was.  A  trifling  fault  of  one  of  my  brothers  had  been 
visited  by  excessive  punishment,  given  in  anger,  and 
there  was  gloom  in  the  household  —  and  not  only  gloom, 
but  alienation,  the  germ  of  separation. 

We  were  sitting,  the  next  morning,  at  our  late,  silent, 
moody  breakfast  —  silent  and  moody  after  rebuking 
words  from  my  father,  who  seemed  only  half  satisfied 
with  the  punishment  already  meted  out  to  my  brother 
—  when  the  door  opened,  and  a  cheerful  voice  sent  a 
chord  of  pleasant  music  vibrating  through  the  room, 
and  a  face  that  always  came  in  sunshine  scattered,  with 
its  golden  beams,  the  clouds  which  curtained  all  our 
feelings.  Smiles  warmed  over  the  sober  face  of  my 
mother,  and  light  sparkled  in  her  eyes,  while  the  whole 
aspect  of  my  father's  countenance  underwent  a  change. 

"  Ah,  Harry  !  "  Uncle  Florian  spoke  to  my  brother, 
who  was  in  disgrace  for  a  fault  light  in  every  way  com 
pared  to  the  fault  of  Aubry  on  the  day  previous,  "  how 
finely  you  are  growing  !  Really,  you  are  the  hand 
somest  boy  in  the  neighborhood." 

"If  he  were  only  as  good  as  he  is  good  looking," 
said  my  mother. 

"  Tut !  tut !  "  replied  Uncle  Florian,  half  aside,  to 
my  mother.  "  Never  say  that  to  a  boy's  face."  Then 
aloud  and  cheerfully,  "  I'll  stand  sponsor  for  Harry,  and 
put  his  good  conduct  against  his  good  looks  any  day." 
What  a  grateful  expression  my  brother  cast  upon  him. 


ALWAYS   IN   SUNSHINE.  Ill 

For  each  and  all  Uncle  Florian  had  a  kind  word,  and 
upon  each  and  all  fell  the  warm  sunlight  of  his  cheer 
ful  spirit.  When  he  left  us,  after  his  brief  visit,  we 
were  all  happier.  Even  my  father's  brows  were  less 
contracted,  and  his  voice  was  kinder  when  he  spoke ; 
and  as  for  my  mother,  her  heart  was  warmer  and  her 
countenance  brighter  through  all  the  day  that  followed. 

Blessings  on  Uncle  Florian,  and  all  men  who,  like 
him,  come  to  us  in  sunshine  !  They  carry  their  own 
heaven  with  them,  and  give  to  every  one  they  meet  a 
glimpse  of  its  sweet  beatitudes.  Ever  more  ready  to 
praise  than  blame  —  to  see  good  rather  than  evil  —  to 
find  the  sunny  instead  of  the  cloudy  side  —  they  are 
like  the  angels  of  whom  it  has  been  said,  that  when 
they  come  to  a  man  they  search  only  for  what  is  good 
in  him,  that  they  may  warm  the  celestial  seed  into  germ 
ination,  knowing  that  if  the  forces  of  life  are  directed 
into  the  good  seed  the  evil  must  lie  dormant.  Long 
years  since  he  wrent  to  his  rest  —  his  days  declining, 
like  the  last  warm  days  of  the  later  autumn,  and  his 
western  sky  radiant  with  the  passing  glories  of  a  spirit 
that  always  clothed  itself  in  sunbeams. 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY. 


XII. 
MRS.  GOLDSMITH  AT  FORTY. 

HE  case  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith  was  a  sad 
)N-    one.     I  did  not  see  the  remedy.     She 
was   forty,  and   not   so   happy   as   at 
thirty-five.    At  thirty,  her  face,  though 
beginning  to  look  at  times  dreamy  and 
discontented,  was   for   the   most  part 
bright   with  anticipation.     Her  three 
children,  all  daughters,  were  unfolding 
from  bud  to  fragrant  blossom,  and  her 
life  rested  in  their  lives. 

Since  the  completion  of  her  thirty-fifth  year  one  of  her 
children  had  died — the  youngest  and  most  tenderly  loved 
because  the  youngest.  Ah  !  for  a  woman  like  Mrs.  Gold 
smith,  who  had  bailt  only  on  an  earthly  foundation,  who 
had  loved  herself  intensely  in  her  children,  this  was  in 
deed  an  affliction.  She  bowed  her  head,  and  refused  to  be 
comforted.  The  unrelieved  black  that  gathered  ill  fu 
nereal  gloom  around  her  person  was  a  fitting  emblem  of 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY.  113 

the  darkness  that  enshrouded  her  spirit.  But  troubles 
and  sorrows  do  not  always  come  alone.  Her  oldest 
daughter  formed  an  attachment  that  did  not  meet  her 
parents'  approbation  ;  and  failing  to  gain  their  consent, 
or  even  the  smallest  approval  of  her  choice,  took  the 
desperate  and  almost  always  unwise  course  of  marrying 
against  their  remonstrances,  threats,  and  commands. 
From  the  day  she  left  her  father's  house  she  had  been 
an  alien  therefrom  ;  and  two  long  years  had  passed  with 
out  a  reconciliation. 

So  at  forty  Mrs.  Goldsmith  had  cause  of  mental  suf 
fering  and  heart-disquietude ;  but  the  suffering  and  dis 
quietude  were  in  excess  of  legitimate  causes.  The 
home  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith  was  luxurious.  So  far  as  her 
external  life  was  concerned,  or  rather,  so  far  as  in  the 
use  of  money  she  could  arrange  the  externals  of  her  life, 
she  had  all  the  means  of  happiness ;  but  these,  in  her 
case  were  wholly  inadequate.  Nay,  instead  of  giving 
that  repose  of  mind  which  freedom  from  worldly  anxi 
eties  is  supposed  to  confer,  they  only  add  to  her  dissatis 
faction.  Their  possession  brought  no  sense  of  responsi 
bility,  but  induced  a  feeling  of  superiority  to  others. 
She  must  always  be  ministered  to,  never  minister.  Her 
comforts,  feelings,  tastes,  habits,  desires,  and  convenien 
ces  must  be  regarded  by  her  domestics  and  by  all  from 
whom  she  required  service  in  any  thing  ;  while  to  their 


114  MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY. 

feelings,  tastes,  habits,  and  conveniences  no  regard  was 
ever  paid.  Pier  position  of  luxurious  ease  had  made 
her,  as  it  does  so  many  in  like  situations,  intensely  sel 
fish  —  and  this  very  selfishness  was  a  cause  of  her  mis 
erable  disquietude. 

Mortified  pride  was  another  source  of  unhappiness  in 
the  case  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith.  To  think  that  her  daugh 
ter  should  humiliate  the  family  by  marrying  beneath 
their  condition  !  Death,  fearful  as  the  visitation  had 
been,  was  a  light  affliction  compared  with  this,  and  dis 
turbed  not  half  so  profoundly. 

Poor  Mrs.  Goldsmith  !  At  forty,  as  I  have  said,  her 
case  was  a  sad  one,  and  I  did  not  see  the  remedy.  Hu 
man  efforts  to  bring  her  mind  back  into  the  sunshine 
were  of  no  avail.  She  brooded  over  her  sorrow  and  her 
humiliation,  admitting  no  cheerful  guests  into  her  heart. 
Mortification  at  her  daughter's  discreditable  marriage, 
added  to  a  morbid  grief —  half  affected,  half  real  — 
that  succeeded  the  first  strong  outgush  of  maternal  an 
guish,  caused  an  entire  withdrawal  of  herself  from  soci 
ety,  and  shut  her  up  in  the  shadowy  retirement  of  her 
own  chamber  for  a  greater  portion  of  the  time. 

No  interest  for  others  could  be  awakened  in  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Goldsmith.  What  was  the  outside  world  to 
her  ?  Human  sympathy  was  barred  from  her  heart. 
She  felt  herself  to  be  of  finer  quality  than  the  mass  of 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT   FORTY.  115 

people  around  her  ;  and  in  her  sorrow  and  stricken  pride 
she  held  herself  coldly  aloof. 

If  Mrs.  Goldsmith  had  taken  interest  in  any  employ 
ment  —  had  gone  down,  with  a  true  woman's  care  and 
thought,  into  her  household,  and  wrought  out  therein 
the  highest  possible  comfort  for  its  inmates  —  then  would 
she  have  found  seasons  of  calmness  and  peace.  But  in 
stead  of  this,  neglect  and  indifference  produced  constant 
irregularities ;  and  sharp,  angry,  or  injudicious  reproof 
and  complainings  alienated  domestics,  and  made  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith  so  unlike  a  true  home  that  it 
scarcely  deserved  the  name. 

And  so  life  at  forty  was  proving  a  failure  to  one  whose 
promise  at  twenty  appeared  bright  as  a  cloudless  day  in 
June.  I  called  one  evening  to  see  her  husband  —  a  man 
of  large  business  operations,  whose  sober,  abstracted  face 
did  not  indicate  a  peaceful  mind.  Care  drew  tightly  on 
the  muscles  about  his  lips,  wrinkled  his  forehead.  ;ind  fix 
ed  his  eyes  in  an  absent  kind  of  gaze,  as  if  he  were  look 
ing  away  from  the  present  into  some  far  beyond.  It 
was  not  often  that  visitors  saw  Mrs.  Goldsmith.  I  was 
privileged.  She  did  not  retire  from  the  family  circle  on 
my  entrance.  A  fleeting  smile  lit  up  her  pale  face  as  I 
came  in  ;  but  it  faded  quickly,  leaving  a  weary,  desolate 
look  in  her  eyes  and  about  her  mouth.  Her  conversa 
tion  was  as  dreary  as  her  face. 


116  MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT   FORTY. 

Domestic  troubles  —  the  worthlessness  of  servants  — 
the  daily  and  hourly  vexations  to  which  the  family  were 
subjected  —  poor  health  —  depression  of  spirits  —  these 
were  the  topics  dwelt  upon  during  the  hour  I  staid.  I 
tried  several  times  to  get  her  mind  away  from  them  — 
to  interest  her  in  other  people  or  other  themes  ;  but,  like 
a  strained  spring,  it  came  always  back  to  its  common  ad 
justment. 

"  The  case  of  Mrs.  Goldsmith  is  hopeless,"  I  said  to 
myself  on  retiring.  "What  are  wealth  and  luxury 
worth  if  their  possessors  can  use  them  to  no  better  ad 
vantage  than  this  ?  Inaction  produces  stagnation,  and 
stagnation  breeds  sickly  forms  of  life.  The  mind  of 
Mrs.  Goldsmith  is  a  stagnant  pool.  Miasma  hangs  over 
the  surface  like  a  cold  vapor,  and  in  the  sluggish  waters 
below  monstrous  creatures  are  taking  shape  and  vitality. 
Storm  and  flood  were  better  than  this  !  Let  the  pool  be 
swept  in  ruin  away,  so  that  even  the  tiniest  stream  re 
main,  singing,  as  its  pure  waters  flow  on  and  on,  its  hap 
py  song,  chording  sweetly  with  every  wind-note  that 
kisses  the  flower-heads  bending  above !  Yes,  yes  ;  this 
were  better  far." 

A  year  afterward,  in  a  distant  city,  I  read  of  Mr. 
Goldsmith's  sudden  death ;  and  letters  received  from 
home  soon  afterward  gave  me  the  information  that  he 
died  a  bankrupt.  "  His  widow  is  left  without  a  dollar," 
was  the  language  of  my  correspondent. 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT   FORTY.  117 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Goldsmith  !  "  said  I,  looking  up  from  my 
letter,  and  recalling  her  image  as  last  seen.  "  Here  is 
trouble  indeed  !  —  trouble  that  you  can  not  sit  down  and 
brood  over  —  trouble  that  will  give  no  permission  for  an 
elegant  retirement  from  the  world  —  trouble  that  neith 
er  pride  nor  a  selfish  love  of  ease  can  nurture.  Ah  !  is 
there  any  strength  left  for  an  ordeal  like  this  ?  Will 
gold  be  found  in  the  crucible  after  the  fire  has  reached 
its  intensest  heat  ?  " 

After  an  absence  of  three  years  I  returned.  In  my 
own  absorbing  duties  —  in  my  own  trials,  sufferings, 
and  life-discipline  —  Mrs.  Goldsmith  was  forgotten,  or 
only  remembered  at  times  with  a  vague  impersonality. 
She  was  of  the  great  outside  world  of  men  and  women 
who  do  not  touch  the  chords  of  an  individual  life,  nor 
awaken  a  sympathetic  interest. 

I  was  sitting  in  one  of  the  parlors  of  an  old  and  val 
ued  friend  when  a  young  lady,  who  had  rung  at  the 
door  and  been  admitted  by  the  servant,  came  in.  My 
friend  said,  in  a  kind,  familiar  voice,  but  without  intro 
ducing  her, 

44  Oh,  Margaret !  " 

"  Miss  Annie  is  at  home  ?  "  There  was  a  low,  pleas 
ant  tone  in  the  speaker's  voice. 

"  Yes.  Walk  into  the  back  parlor.  She'll  be  with 
you  in  a  moment." 


118  MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT   FORTY. 

The  young  lady  passed  through  the  folding-doors,  and 
we  were  alone  again. 

"  There's  something  familiar  in  her  face,"  said  I,  look 
ing  inquiringly  at  my  friend. 

"  Anna's  music-teacher  ;  a  Miss  Goldsmith." 

"  Not  the  daughter  of  Robert  Goldsmith,  who  died  a 
few  years  ago  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  of  her  mother  ?  "  I  asked,  with  a  suddenly- 
quickened  interest.  "  Is  she  living  ?  ' ' 

«  Oh  yes." 

"  Where,  and  how  ?  " 

"  With  her  daughter." 

"  Whom  she  cast  off  in  anger  on  account  of  her  mar 
riage  with  a  young  man  regarded  as  beneath  her  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

u  What  of  him  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  He's  an  estimable  person,  I  believe,  and  holds  a  re 
sponsible  position  in  one  of  our  large  mercantile  houses." 

"  What  a  blow  to  pride  !  I  wonder  how  Mrs.  Gold 
smith's  present  state  compares  with  her  condition  of 
mind  when  she  stood  in  the  higher  ranks  ?  " 

But  my  friend  could  not  answer  the  question.  She 
had  not  known  Mrs.  Goldsmith  in  the  days  of  her  pros 
perity,  and  only  knew  of  her  now  through  her  daugh 
ter,  who  came  twice  a  week  to  give  music  lessons. 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT   FORTY.  119 

Next  morning  I  called  upon  my  old  acquaintance, 
now  in  adversity.  Nearly  ten  minutes  passed  after  send 
ing  up  my  card  before  she  made  her  appearance.  I  be 
gan  to  have  misgivings  as  to  the  state  in  which  I  should 
find  her. 

A  rustling  of  garments  on  the  stairs  —  the  pleasant 
pattering  of  little  feet  —  the  music  of  a  child's  question 
ing  voice  —  and  then  Mrs.  Goldsmith  entered,  leading  a 
golden-haired  little  girl  of  some  three  summers  by  the 
hand.  One  glance  into  her  pale,  calm,  humanized  face 
told  the  story  of  suffering  and  triumph.  She  had  been 
down  among  the  seething  waters  of  sorrow  and  adversi 
ty,  but  had  risen  above  them  in  the  strength  of  a  no 
bler  and  purer  love  than  had  burned  in  her  heart  in  the 
days  of  wealth  and  luxurious  ease. 

"  It  was  kind  in  you  to  call,"  she  said  as  she  stood 
holding  my  hand  and  looking  at  me  with  a  gratified  ex 
pression  on  her  face. 

"  I  am  grieved,"  I  said,  using  the  common  form  of 
expression,  "  to  find  that  since  my  absence  from  the  city 
sad  changes  have  met  you." 

She  smiled  faintly  as  she  answered,  "  God's  ways  are 
not  as  our  ways." 

"  But  His  ways  are  always  best,"  I  said,  quickly. 

"  Always  —  always,"  she  replied,  the  smile  growing 
sweeter  about  her  mouth. 


120  MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY. 

"  Though  our  feet  turn  to  them  unwillingly,"  I  re 
marked. 

"  Very  unwillingly,  as  in  my  case." 

We  were  seated.  The  sunny-haired  child  was  in  her 
arms,  her  head  laid  back,  and  her  eyes  turne.d  lovingly 
upward.  Mrs.  Goldsmith  looked  down  upon  the  sweet 
face,  and  left  a  kiss  upon  it. 

"  Your  grand-daughter  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  she's  a  darling  little  girl !  "  Her  arms,  on 
which  the  child  lay,  felt  the  loving  impulse  that  was  in 
her  heart,  and  drew  the  form  close  against  her  breast. 
I  noticed  the  movement,  and  said,  in  my  thought,  "  Yes ; 
His  ways  are  best  —  always  —  always." 

44  There  has  been  much  lost,"  she  said,  in  the  earnest 
talk  that  followed  — "  much  lost,  and  much  gained  ; 
and  the  gain  is  greater  than  the  loss.  Oh,  into  what  a 
blind,  selfish,  sinful  state  had  I  fallen  when  that  sterner 
visitation  and  discipline  came,  and  I  sunk  for  a  time  in 
utter  despair.  Then  I  became  conscious  that  a  struggle 
for  very  life  had  come,  and  that  not  only  for  myself,  but 
for  another  also  —  a  struggle  in  which  victory  would  be 
reached  only  in  the  degree  that  I  had  in  myself  the  ele 
ments  of  strength.  In  the  wreck  of  my  husband's  es 
tate  every  thing  was  lost.  Our  elegant  home  and  luxu 
rious  furniture  receded  from  possession,  fading  away,  in 
our  bewilderment  and  grief,  like  a  dissolving  view,  or 


MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY.  121 

the  passing  of  scenery  in  a  play.  My  first  distinct  im 
pression  was  like  that  of  a  man  in  the  midst  of  over 
whelming  waters,  and  I  began  reaching  about  fearfully, 
in  my  thought,  for  a  way  of  safety  and  escape.  Then 
the  despised  and  contemned  one  —  he  from  whom  we 
had  turned  ourselves  away  in  bitter  scorn  —  came  and 
spoke  such  kind,  true,  tender,  and  manly  words,  that 
my  rebuked  and  smitten  heart  bowed  itself  before  him 
in  something  of  reverence.  I  saw  in  what  loving  trust 
and  confidence  my  daughter  leaned  upon  him,  secure 
and  steadfast,  while  against  me  and  my  other  child  the 
floods  swept  fiercely,  and  it  seemed  as  if  no  power  could 
save  us. 

"  Ah  !  Sir,  God  led  us  down  into  a  deep,  dark,  fright- 
fid  valley,  only  that  he  might  show  us  the  way  to  a 
mountain  of  love,  rising  heavenward,  beyond.  I  could 
not  go  in  through  the  door  opened  for  us  in  such  a  man 
ly,  Christian  spirit,  and  sit  down  in  idleness,  with  fold 
ed  hands.  The  generous  conduct  of  my  daughter's 
husband  inspired  me  with  a  desire  to  return  benefit  for 
benefit,  and  though  here,  under  the  law  of  filial  love,  I 
try  daily  to  let  gratitude  express  itself  in  service  ;  and 
so,  in  useful  employments,  I  find  a  new  life  in  which 
peace  dwells.  Margaret  will  not  be  idle  and  dependent. 
It  is  not  the  wish  of  her  excellent  brother-in-law  that 
6 


122  MRS.    GOLDSMITH   AT  FORTY. 

she  should  teach ;  but  duty  has  led  her  into  the  right 
way,  and  she  is  cheerful  and  happy." 

"  Not  in  the  external  things  of  this  life,"  I  said,  as 
she  paused,  "  can  the  heart  find  rest." 

"  Nor  without  them,"  she  replied.  u  We  must  make 
them  the  ministers  of  useful  service  ;  must  dwell  in 
them,  as  life  dwells  in  true  forms,  directing  and  controll 
ing  them  for  those  good  uses  they  were  intended  to 
serve." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  "  they  will  be  as  Aaron's  rod  in  the 
hand  —  a  staff  for  support ;  and  not  as  Aaron's  rod  on 
the  ground  —  a  stinging  serpent." 


A   DAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  123 


XIII. 

A  DAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mr.  Denni- 
son,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  page 
he  was  reading,  and  remained  for  some 
time  in  a  thoughtful  position.  "  I  don't 
know  about  that,"  and  he  looked  upon 
the  page  again  as  he  repeated  the  sen 
tence,  and  read  aloud :  "A  man  who 
undertakes  to  make  universal  life  serve 
him  will  always  be  aggrieved.  '  It  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive  ; '  and  the  man 
who,  with  loving  zeal,  goes  out  into  life,  giving 
his  own  soul  to  things  about  him,  finds  life  easy, 
and  rich,  and  full,  and  strong,  while  nobody  else 
does." 

Mr.  Dennison,  after  puzzling  himself  for  a  little  while 
over  the  suggestions  which   were   born  of  the  precept 


124  A  DAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

given  above,  dismissed  the  subject,  and  let  the  easier 
current  of  his  thoughts  flow  on  in  its  usual  direction. 

Out  into  the  world  Mr.  Dennison  passed,  and  for 
another  day,  entered  into  his  work.  He  was  an  earnest 
man  and  a  strong  man,  usually  pressing  to  the  accom 
plishment  of.  his  will,  with  a  resolute  purpose  that  swept 
aside  all  feebler  resistances.  But  strong  and  earnest 
men  are  apt  to  come  in  contact  with  men  as  strong  and 
earnest  as  themselves,  and  through  these  are  repressed 
by  limitations.  None  are  permitted  to  work  to  the  full 
accomplishment  of  their  ends.  Other  interests  are  per 
petually  antagonizing  them.  And  so  it  happens  that 
those  who  undertake  to  make  universal  life  serve  them, 
are  perpetually  aggrieved. 

Take  a  single  day  in  the  experience  of  Mr.  Denni 
son.  He  was  in  position  at  an  early  business  hour,  all 
on  the  alert  as  usual.  A  man  came  into  his  store.  He 
had  been  expecting  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Henry,"  said  he  with  a  courte 
ous  smile. 

Mr.  Henry  returned  the  salutation,  but  in  slight  em 
barrassment. 

"  I've  only  brought  you  three  hundred  dollars,"  said 
the  latter. 

"  Ah  !  I'm  sorry  for  that."  And  the  light  went  out 
of  Mr.  Dennison's  face.  "  I  fully  counted  on  si*  hun 
dred." 


A   DAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  125 

"  Not  with  more  confidence  than  I  counted  on  mak 
ing  up  the  sum.  Here  is  all  I  can  raise."  And  Mr. 
Henry  placed  a  check  in  the  hand  of  Mr.  Dennison, 
who  received  it  in  a  cold  and  ungracious  manner. 

"  How  soon  can  you  make  up  the  balance  ?  "  asked 
the  latter,  in  a  tone  very  different  from  that  in  which 
he  had  greeted  his  visitor  a  few  moments  before. 

"  I  will  endeavor  to  do  so  this  week,"  said  Mr.  Hen 
ry,  in  a  depressed  voice. 

There  followed  an  unpleasant  silence.  Then  Mr. 
Henry  said  "  good  morning,"  and  retired. 

Mr.  Dennison  had  received  three  hundred  dollars  of 
a  sum  due  him  by  a  fellow  merchant,  and  the  promise 
of  three  hundred  more  in  a  week.  He  was  in  no  fear 
of  losing  the  balance  due  ;  but  having  expected  to  re 
ceive  the  full  sum  on  that  morning,  he  experienced  a 
feeling  of  disappointment  that  led  him  to  deal  unkindly 
-with  a  man  who  was  already  suffering  because  unable 
to  keep  his  engagement. 

A  state  of  mind  far  from  agreeable  was  the  conse 
quence  of  this  incident.  There  were  two  causes  of  dis 
quietude  :  a  failure  to  receive  an  expected  sum  of  mon 
ey,  which  he  purposed  using  to  advantage,  and  a  con 
sciousness  that  he  had  wounded  the  feelings  of  a  man 
to  whom  kind  consideration  should  have  been  extended. 
There  was  an  element  of  pleasure  in  that  incident,  but 


126  A  DAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

Mr.  Dennison  had  failed  to  extract  it.  If  he  could  so 
far  have  forgotten  himself  as  to  feel  pity  for  his  neigh 
bor's  troubled  state  of  mind,  and  met  his  declared  ina 
bility  to  fulfill  an  engagement  with  cheerful  acquiescence, 
that  self-denial  would  have  been  followed  by  an  interior 
satisfaction  strongly  in  contrast  with  the  disquietude 
that  actually  came. 

Mr.  Dennison  was  not  made  stronger  for  the  day's  as 
saults  upon  his  peace  of  mind  by  this  opening  incident. 
He  was  fully  committed  to  self-service,  and  his  soul  cried 
into  the  world,  "  Give !  Give  ! "  with  an  undying  ea 
gerness.  The  day  was  to  be  his  own,  and  every  act  for 
himself.  Not  a  pulse  beat  in  harmony  with  the  com 
mon  pulse  ;  not  a  thought  embraced  his  neighbor. 

"  I've  closed  that  bargain,"  said  a  man,  who  entered 
Mr.  Dennison's  store  soon  after  Mr.  Kent's  departure. 

"  You  have  !  "  There  was  surprise  in  Mr.  Denni 
son's  voice,  and  a  falling  of  his  countenance. 

"  Yes ;  you  held  your  lot  too  firmly.  I  was  certain, 
as  I  told  you  yesterday,  that  I  could  do  better  with  Ray- 
nor." 

"  I  might  have  receded.  Why  didn't  you  come  to 
me  before  closing  with  Raynor  ?  "  said  Mr.  Dennison. 

"  You  were  decided  about  the  matter  when  I  was  here 
last." 

"  True  ;  but  I  wished  to  sell,  and  if  I  had  supposed, 


A    DAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  127 

for  an  instant,  that  Raynor  would  have  given  away,"  — 
Mr.  Dennison  checked  himself,  and  tried  to  rally  and  as 
sume  an  air  of  indifference.  But  his  disappointment 
was  too  great.  The  lot  of  ground  which  he  had  failed 
to  sell,  was  one  that  he  was  desirous  of  exchanging  for 
money,  and  for  which,  at  any  time  during  the  past  two 
years,  he  would  have  sold  for  twenty  per  cent,  less  than 
the  price  just  asked  of  a  man  who  wanted  it  for  a  par 
ticular  purpose.  In  his  eagerness  to  get  the  highest  pos 
sible  price,  Mr.  Dennison  had  overreached  himself,  and 
chagrin  was  added  to  his  disappointment. 

"I'm  sorry."  remarked  his  visitor,  with  a  shade  of 
regret  in  his  voice.  "  Your  lot  would  have  suited  me 
better  ;  but  the  price  at  which  I  bought  was  a  consider 
ation." 

"  What  are  you  to  pay  Raynor  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Denni 
son. 

"  Two  thousand  three  hundred  dollars." 

"  Mine  is  the  most  desirable  for  your  purpose." 

«  Yes." 

"  You  shall  have  it  for  the  same." 

But  the  man  shook  his  head,  saying ;  "  The  trans 
action  is  closed.  I  have  agreed  to  take  Mr.  Raynor's 
lot." 

"  But  I  want  you  to  have  my  lot.  It  will  answer 
your  purpose  a  great  deal  better  than  Raynor's.  Take 
it  for  two  thousand  two  hundred  dollars." 


128 


A   DAY  S    EXPERIENCE. 


Mr.  Dennison,  in  his  eagerness  to  dispose  of  his  prop 
erty,  was  losing  sight  of  honor. 

"  Sir,"  answered  his  visitor,  with  some  sternness  of 
manner,  "  I  never  forfeit  my  word." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that  ?  "     Mr.  Dennison  colored. 

"  I  told  you  the  transaction  was  closed ;  that  I  had 
agreed  to  take  Raynor's  lot." 

"  Oh,  so  you  did !  Excuse  me.  I  did  not  rightly 
consider  your  word." 

Mr.  Dennison's  face  wore  a  sober  aspect  after  the  vis 
itor  had  retired.  The  incident  had  hurt  him  consider 
ably  —  hurt  his  self-esteem  as  well  as  his  cupidity.  In 
attempting  to  get  the  utmost  farthing  possible  in  a  trans 
action  with  his  neighbor,  he  had  lost  the  sale  of  proper 
ty  on  which  he  was  yearly  sinking  interest  and  taxes  ; 
and  lost  also  his  own  self-respect  and  the  good  opinion 
of  this  neighbor.  These  were  not  circumstances  favor 
able  to  mental  tranquility. 

In  the  ordinary  business  transactions  of  the  day, 
many  things  occurred  to  fret  and  chafe  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Dennison.  Scarcely  anything  came  out  just  right. 
Not  a  sale  was  made  in  which  the  satisfaction  arising 
from  a  consideration  of  the  profit,  was  not  marred  by 
regret  that  the  benefit  to  himself  was  not  larger.  In 
fact,  results  were  all  the  while  falling  below  desires. 
Nearly  every  thought  and  act  were  limited  to  the  nar- 


A   DAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  129 

row  circumference  of  his  own  little  world  of  self.  He 
demanded  service  of  every  thing  and  every  body,  and 
every  thing  and  every  body  that  served  him,  did  so  with 
stint  and  reluctance. 

And  so  it  happened  in  Mr.  Dennison's  case,  as  it 
happens  with  such  men,  that  results  in  life  were  always 
inadequate.  Nothing  came  out  just  right ;  nothing  ac 
complished  gave  the  hoped-for  tranquillity  and  satisfac 
tion.  Self-seeking  cursed  itself  perpetually. 

Mr.  Dennison  sat,  towards  mid-day,  revolving  some 
scheme  of  profit  in  his  mind,  when  a  lad  came  in  and 
handed  him  a  letter.  He  broke  the  seal  and  read  : 

**  DEAR  SIB — lam  anxious  to  get  my  son  Charles,  who  "will  hand 
you  this,  into  some  business  "where  he  can  earn  a  few  dollars  weekly. 
My  circumstances,  I  regret  to  say,  are  greatly  reduced,  rendering  some 
employment  on  the  part  of  my  boy  necessary.  Will  you  do  for  me  what 
you  can?  Very  respectfully,  MARGARET  WISTAR." 

The  reading  of  this  letter  threw  something  of  a  chill 
over  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Dennison.  Mrs.  Wistar  was 
the  widow  of  an  old  friend,  with  whom  he  had  once 
been  on  terms  of  close  intimacy ;  he  could  not,  there 
fore,  treat  her  application  with  entire  indifference  ;  but 
how  was  he  to  turn  aside  from  busy  self-service  to  serve 
another  ?  The  application  seemed  altogether  out  of 
place.  Twice  he  read  the  letter  over,  and  then,  in 


130  A  DAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

forced  consideration  for  the  lad,  looked  coldly  upon  him, 
and  said : 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Wistar's  son  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir."  The  boy  felt  the  merchant's  repellant 
sphere  like  a  hand  pushing  him  away 

"  What  can  you  do  ?  " 

u  I  could  stand  in  a  store,  sir,  or  run  of  errands. 
I'm  willing  to  do  anything,  sir." 

"  Hum — m.  I  don't  know  of  any  place.  It's  been 
a  bad  season  just  now.  But,  tell  your  mother  that  I'll 
bear  it  in  mind,  and  see  what  can  be  done." 

The  boy  shrunk  away,  feeling  but  little  encouraged 
by  Mr.  Dennison's  coldly  uttered  promise.  He  was 
scarcely  twenty  paces  from  the  merchant's  desk,  when 
his  mother's  letter  was  carelessly  thrown  aside. 

But  Mr.  Dennison  could  not,  as  carelessly,  put  aside 
the  thought  of  Mrs.  Wistar.  Old  incidents  and  rela 
tions  connected  with  the  former  life,  revived  in  his 
memory,  rebuking  indifference,  and  compelling  him  to 
regard  her  application  as  having  something  of  a  blind 
ing  force. 

"  I  can't  do  anything  for  the  boy,"  he  said,  half- 
fretfully,  to  himself,  trying  to  get  away  from  convictions 
of  duty.  But  these  convictions  were  not  to  be  set  aside, 
and  they  kept  haunting  him  until  thought  turned  from 
his  own  affairs,  and  he  gave  a  brief  interval  of  precious 


A    DAY'S   EXPERIENCE.  131 

time  to  the  lad.  In  that  brief  interval  the  right  sug 
gestion  came. 

"  I  will  see  about  it  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Dennison, 
taking  up  his  hat  and  going  out.  There  was  a  pleasant 
exhilaration  in  his  thoughts.  He  was  successful.  In 
less  than  an  hour  from  the  time  Charles  Wistar  left  his 
store,  feeling  that  no  good  would  come  from  the  appli 
cation,  his  mother  received  an  answer  to  her  letter,  con 
veying  the  gratifying  intelligence  that  an  excellent  place 
had  been  secured  for  her  son. 

On  the  evening  of  that  day,  Mr.  Dennison  sat  mus 
ing,  as  was  his  wont,  over  the  day's  results.  He  was 
in  a  more  satisfied  state  of  mind  than  usual,  and,  strange 
as  it  seemed  to  him,  on  tracing  this  feeling  to  its  source 
it  was  not  connected  with  any  good  accomplished  for 
himself,  but  came  from  the  good  deed  done  for  Mrs. 
Wistar.  He  had  gained  liberally  in  more  than  one 
transaction  ;  had  reached  certain  desirable  ends  ;  yet, 
in  all  that  was  of  self,  a  certain  disquietude  and  dissat 
isfaction  were  connected  —  while  his  thoughts  of  the 
widow  and  her  son  gave  an  unalloyed  pleasure. 

As  he  mused  over  the  day's  doings,  a  note  was 
placed  in  his  hands. 

*'  DEAR  SIR  —  Your  prompt  kindness  has  touched  my  heart.  I  did 
not  say  how  pressing  was  my  extremity.  But  that  you  may  know  the 
great  service  you  have  rendered,  I  will  declare  the  truth.  If  Charles 


132  A  DAY'S  EXPERIENCE. 

had  not  obtained  employment,  I  should  have  been  forced  to  break  up  my 
little  family.  But  the  bond  is  not  yet  loosened,  thank  God  !  May 
heaven  bless  you,  as  it  will ! 

Gratefully, 

MARGARET  WISTAR." 

A  little  while  afterwards,  Mr.  Dennison  took  up  the 
volume  from  which  he  had  read  a  few  sentences  in  the 
morning,  and  the  same  passages  met  his  eyes.  He  let 
them  come  into  his  thoughts  again  :  —  "  Some  men  go 
around  saying  to  things,  '  Why  don't  you  serve  me  ? 
Why  don't  you  please  me  ?  '  They  are  forever  com 
plaining  that  nothing  helps  them,  and  that  everything 
is  against  them.  A  man  that  undertakes  to  make  uni- 

o 

versal  life  serve  him,  will  always  be  aggrieved.  It  is 
more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive  ;  and  the  man  that 
with  loving  zeal  goes  out  into  life,  giving  his  soul  to 
things  about  him,  finds  life  easy,  and  rich,  and  full,  and 
strong,  while  nobody  else  does." 

Did  he  say,  as  in  the  morning,  "  I  don't  know  about 
that  ?  "  Not  so  ;  but,  with  a  dawning  perception  of  a 
great  truth,  spoke  thus  with  himself:  "  Life's  best 
philosophy  is  doubtless  embodied  here.  I  must  ponder 
these  things.  In  what  I  have  gained  for  self  to-day,  no 
true  pleasure  has  been  born  ;  while  that  one  good  deed 
fills  my  heart  with  a  glow  of  satisfaction." 


JUST   BEYOND. 


138 


XIV. 

JUST  BEYOND. 


>E  heard,  or  dreamed,  this  story  of 
two  lost  children,  a  boy  and  a  girl. 
They  had  gone  for  an  afternoon's 
berrying  in  the  fields  and  woods, 
and  after  filling  their  baskets, 
started  for  home.  But  the  sky 
had  become  heavily  overcast  with 
clouds,  so  that  they  couldn't  tell 
the  east  from  the  west ;  and  as  they  had  wandered  away 
from  old  beaten  paths,  and  familiar  localities,  the  effort 
to  reach  their  home  ere  nightfall  proved  fruitless.  With 
blank,  pale  face,  and  lips  trembling  with  fear,  the  young 
est,  a  boy,  looked  up  to  his  companion,  as  the  evening 
shadows  began  to  creep  down  among  the  thick  leaved 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  sa*id, 

"  Oh,  sister  Edie  !     Are  we  lost  ?  " 


134  JUST   BEYOND. 

Edie  did  not  answer ;  but  the  boy  saw  the  paleness 
of  his  own  face  reflected  in  her's. 

"  This  is  the  way,  I  think." 

She  did  not  feel  the  confidence  which  she  sought  to 
throw  into  her  voice  ;  but  she  was  one  year  older  than 
her  brother,  and  must,  therefore,  act  for  both.  She  felt 
the  flutter  of  his  hand,  as  it  clung  to  her's  tightly. 

But  the  little  opening  among  the  trees  toward  which 
she  hurried,  terminated,  at  the  end  of  a  hundred  yards, 
in  a  dense  mass  of  underwood,  through  which  she  did 
not  venture  to  go. 

"  Are  we  lost,  sister?  "  again  asked  the  other  child. 

"  It  can't  be  far  from  home,  Willie.  We'll  soon  find 
our  way  out  of  the  woods.  Don't  cry  !  " 

A  sob,  and  then  a  wail  of  fear  cut  the  still  air. 

"  Don't  cry.     We'll  soon  be  home." 

How  bravely  Edie  tried  to  speak,  even  while  her  own 
heart  was  sinking.  The  boy  hid  his  face  against  her, 
weeping  and  shuddering.  He  had  heard  about  children 
being  lost  in  the  woods,  and  terror  overcame  him. 

Half  forgetting  herself,  in  pity  for  her  affrighted  and 
almost  helpless  brother,  Edie  grew  brave  and  strong,  in 
stead  of  cowardly  and  weak. 

"  Crying  don't  do  any  good,  Willie,"  she  spoke  in  a 
firm  tone ;  u  and  we'll  never  get  home  if  we  stand 
still." 


JUST  BEYOND.  135 

She  moved  back  the  way  she  had  come  through  the 
opening  among  the  trees,  holding  Willie  by  the  hand. 

"  This  is  the  way.  I  know  it  now."  She  spoke  with 
more  confidence  than  she  felt.  Cattle  tracks  were  seen, 
and  she  followed  them  down  into  deep  ravines,  along 
hillside,  across  narrow  clearing,  and  then  into  a  dense 
wood,  where  she  lost  them  in  the  darkness  of  coming 
night  —  and  stood  still  trembling. 

Willie's  cries  broke  out  again.     He  was  in  despair. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  Edie. 

The  two  children  listened. 

"'What  did  you  hear,  Edie  ? 

The  child's  voice  was  unnatural  and  choking. 

"  Listen  I     That's  a  dog,  Willie !     That's  our  Lion." 

"  I  don't  hear  any  dog,  Edie." 

"  But  I  do  !  Come  !  This  is  the  way !  "  and  Edie 
pulled  Willie  after  her,  through  brush  and  briar,  has 
tening  in  the  direction  from  which,  to  her  ears,  had 
seemed  to  come  the  barking  of  a  dog.  Their  hands  and 
faces  were  scratched  and  their  clothes  torn  —  their 
limbs  ached  with  fatigue  —  still  they  kept  on,  until  the 
edge  of  the  woods  was  reached,  and  they  saw  a  wide 
field  stretching  beyond. 

"  It's  only  a  little  way  now,"  said  Edie,  in  a  brave, 
confiding  voice. 

"  But  Fm  so  tired  !  "  moaned  Willie,  dragging  back, 
"  and  mv  foot  hurts  me." 


136  JUST  BEYOND. 

«  Hark  !     That's  it  again.     That's  Lion  !  " 
"  I  don't  hear  any  dog,"  answered  Willie. 
"  But  I  do.     Now,  walk  on  briskly.     Come,  Willie." 
Thus  urged,  the  child  kept  on  by  the  side  of  his  sfs- 
ter,  until  half  across  the   field ;    but,  his  chafed  and 
smarting  feet,  his  aching  limbs,  and  his  burden  of  fear 
were  too  much  for  endurance,  and  he  stood  still  again, 

i  O  ' 

crying  sadly. 

"  Our  house  is  just  beyond  the  hill,  over  the  field, 
Willie.  I  heard  Lion.  Now  do  come  along.  It's  get 
ting  so  dark  that  we'll  be  lost,  if  we  don't  hurry." 

"  We're  lost,  now  !  "  sobbed  Willie.  "  0  dear  !  O 
dear  !  "  and  he  cried  more  distressingly. 

"  Listen  !  "  said  Edie. 

Her  brother  ceased  crying. 

"  What  do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  That  was  Lion,  barking." 

"  I  don't  hear  him." 

"  There  !  I  hear  it  again.  It's  Lion.  Come  !  Let 's 
hurry  across  the  field." 

Thus  urged,  faint-hearted  little  Willie  took  courage 
again,  and  moved  onward  with  his  sister,  though  always 
a  step  behind.  They  were  nearly  across  the  field,  when 
both  stumbled  over  a  sudden  rise  in  the  ground,  and 
then  fell  forward  into  a  ditch.  Edie  scrambled  quickly 
to  her  feet,  but  Willie  lay  in  helpless  despair  amid  the 


JUST   BSYOND.  137 

water  and  mire.  It  took  all  the  brave  little  girl's 
strength  to  drag  him  out,  and  over  to  the  other  side  of 
the  ditch,  on  to  the  firm  dry  ground.  Here  he  lay 
down  in  utter  abandonment,  crying  in  a  low,  tremulous 
wail.  Unmindful  of  her  own  condition,  Edie  took  off 
Willie's  shoes  and  poured  out  the  water ;  then  put 
them  on  again,  and  wiped,  with  handfuls  of  grass  and 
leaves,  the  mud  from  his  clothes,  speaking  all  the  while 
comforting  and  hopeful  words.  After  a  time,  she  per 
suaded  him  to  walk  forward  again. 

Over  the  field,  into  the  skirting  woods,  and  across  the 
hill,  beyond  which  Edie  was  certain  their  home  lay  ; 
and  yet,  no  human  habitation  came  in  sight.  The  chil 
dren  stood  still  and  hearkened.  In  the  hush  of  the 
gloomy  woods,  strange  low  sounds  crept  into  their  ears, 
and  undefined  terrors  oppressed  them.  Haunting  fears 
of  wild  beasts,  or  of  savage  men  who  delighted  in  cru 
elty  and  murder  —  they  had  read  of  such  things  in 
books  —  crowded  upon  their  hearts.  The  courage  and 
self-reliance  which  had,  until  now,  sustained  Edie,  were 
about  giving  way,  when  Willie  hid  his  face  in  her  dress, 
and  she  felt  the  weight  of  his  body  leaning  heavily 
against  her,  and  its  tremors  running  along  her  nerves. 
So,  more  for  his  sake  than  her  own,  she  aroused  herself, 
and  with  hopeful  utterance,  moved  forward  again,  draw 
ing  him  lagging,  weary  and  sore-footed  after  her. 


138  JUST   BEYOND. 

It  was  night  now  —  moonless  and  starless  night,  and 
very  dark.  But  in  a  little  while  the  children  came  to 
an  open  road,  cut  with  wagon-tracks.  Then  they  took 
heart  and  walked  on  more  quickly. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  home  now,"  said  brave,  hopeful 
Edie. 

"  But  you  don't  hear  Lion  any  more,"  answered  fear 
ful,  doubting  Willie. 

"  Maybe  he  isn't  barking  ;  you  know  he  does'nt  bark 
all  the  while."  That  was  for  Willie's  encouragement. 
His  suggestion  had  shaken  her  confidence. 

A  weary  half  mile,  and  then  Willie  would  go  no  far 
ther.  Fatigue  and  hopelessness  had  driven  away  the 
terrors  with  which  darkness  had  at  first  oppressed  him. 
It  was  all  in  vain  that  Edie  coaxed,  persuaded,  prom 
ised,  even  scolded  in  simulated  anger.  He  sat  down  on 
the  roadside  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  hill,  and  would  not 
stir. 

"  I  know  it's  just  over  the  hill,  Willie.  Now  do 
come  a  little  further.'' 

"  You've  kept  saying  that  all  the  while,"  answered 
the  boy,  fretfully,  "  and  I  don't  believe  it  any  more." 

And  yet  Edie  was  right  this  time.  Home  lay  just 
beyond.  One  more  effort  —  one  more  difficulty  sub 
dued  —  another  weary  hill  ascended,  and  they  would  be 
in  their  father's  house.  But,  Willie's  faith,  hope,  en- 


JUST  BEYOND.  139 

durance  were  all  gone.  No  argument  could  move  him, 
and  no  suggestion  revive  his  dead  confidence  ;  even 
while  Edie  wrought  with  him  he  went  fast  asleep. 
Then  it  was  that  the  sister's  brave  heart  sunk  down  de 
spairingly  ;  that  her  cheeks,  dry  until  now,  reflected  the 
star-light  from  great  falling  tears ;  that  her  sobs,  long 
held  back  for  Willie's  sake,  shook  themselves  free,  and 
went  forth  in  dissonant  moans  upon  the  air.  Sitting 
down  upon  the  roadside,  with  the  woman's  instinctive 
self-devotion  still  ruling  in  her  young  breast,  Edie  drew 
the  head  of  her  unconscious  brother  into  her  lap,  and 
leaning  her  wet  face  down  upon  his,  wept  herself  into 
oblivion. 

Yet,  just  beyond,  home  awaited  them  !  One  more  ef 
fort,  and  its  gleaming  windows  would  have  gladdened 
their  eyes.  And,  for  lack  of  this,  they  went  to  sleep, 
as  lost  children,  out  in  the  cold  night,  exposed  to  harms. 
As  the  story  goes  —  heard  or  dreamed,  which  it  does 
not  signify  —  a  neighbor,  returning  late  that  way,  found 
them  on  the  roadside,  and  bore  them  in  his  stout  arms 
home,  where,  when  their  senses  woke  with  the  awaken 
ing  morning,  they  found  themselves  in  safety. 

Just  beyond  !  Ah,  how  many,  like  these  children, 
sit  down  despairing  on  the  wayside,  in  some  gloomy  val 
ley,  with  the  goal  for  which  they  are  striving  over  the 
next  hill  of  difficulty,  and  just  beyond.  Fainting  so- 


140  JUST   BEYOND. 

journer  in  the  ways  of  life,  never  give  up  your  confi 
dence.  If  the  night  falls,  and  the  path  is  lost,  still  keep 
a  brave  heart.  Walk  onward,  warily,  because  of  the 
darkness,  yet  ever  onward  —  the  good  you  seek ;  or, 
mayhap,  a  higher  and  more  permanent  good  is  beyond 
—  just  beyond  for  all  you  know,  and  about  rewarding 
your  toilsome  efforts.  The  world  is  not  all  wilderness. 
Night  ever  gives  way  to  morning.  If  there  are  steep 
and  weary  hills,  there  are  also  level  plains  and  pleasant 
valleys.  If  in  the  forest,  press  on  in  courage  and  pa 
tience  —  you  will  find  the  open  clearing.  If  the  moun 
tain  looks  rugged  and  high,  and  you  are  faint  and  weary, 
do  not  sit  down  in  despair  at  the  foot,  but  gird  up  your 
loins  and  pass  to  the  other  side.  It  may  be  the  last 
mountain  for  many  a  mile,  and  smiling  meadows  may 
lie  beyond.  If  you  are  lost  in  a  bewildering  maze  of 
events  which  your  dull  eyes  cannot  read,  still  look  up 
ward  and  beyond,  pressing  forward,  though  your  feet 
are  sore  and  your  tired  limbs  ache. 

Just  beyond  !  Just  beyond  !  For  lack  of  this  faith, 
how  many  fall  in  their  tracks,  going  to  sleep,  with  no 
stout  arms  to  lift  them,  as  the  slumbering  children  were 
lifted  and  borne  forward  to  their  home. 

Never  despair  !  If  your  motives  are  right  —  if,  in  the 
midst  of  errors,  and  even  evils  of  life  into  which  an 
evil  heart  may,  when  off  your  guard,  have  betrayed 
you,  you  are  still  conscious  of  good  and  true  purposes 


JUST   BEYOND.  141 

toward  all  men  ;  if  your  aspirations  are  for  the  better 
things  of  heaven,  do  not  despair,  though  you  cannot  see 
a  star  in  the  clouded  heavens,  and  no  tracks  on  the 
ground  show  that  feet  have  ever  passed  that  way  before. 
It  happens  to  every  one,  at  some  period  in  his  life,  that 
he  must  go  into  the  wilderness  alone,  and  walk  in  per 
sonal  experience,  where  none,  but  the  Incarnate  God, 
has  walked  before.  But,  God  knows  the  way,  and  if 
you  look  to  him  and  press  onward,  He  will  surely  bring 
you  out  in  safety.  Oh,  do  not  then  despair  ;  no  matter 
how  dark  the  night,  how  bewildered  the  way,  how  high 
the  mountain,  walk  forward  —  home  may  be  just  be 
yond  at  the  time  you  are  in  sorest  doubt. 

To  all,  whether  in  lowest  or  highest  things,  let  the  ad 
monition  come.  Never  faint,  never  falter,  never  aban 
don  yourself  to  weak  fears.  In  difficulty,  in  doubt,  in 
danger,  ever  be  on  the  alert,  hopeful  and  on-pressing ; 
success,  accomplishment,  home,  are  beyond,  and  to  gain 
you  must  move  forward  —  they  must  lie  just  beyond. 
Picture  to  your  mind  those  lost  children  asleep  in  the 
valley,  while  just  over  the  next  hill  top  their  home- 
lights  stream  from  every  inviting  window  ;  and  if  you 
are  tempted  to  give  up,  like  them,  arouse  yourself,  and 
climb  the  difficult  mountain  that  lies  across  your  way. 
It  may  bring  you  to  all  you  have  striven  for  through 
vears. 


142 


MORE  BLESSED   TO    GIVE. 


XV. 

MORE  BLESSED  TO  GIVE. 


ORE  blessed  to  give   than   to   re 
ceive." 

It  was  the  low,  half-questioning 
voice    of  a   child,  whose   thoughts 
went  out  into  audible   expression. 
"  More  blessed  to  give  ?  "  she  re 
peated.     "  More  blessed  ?  " 

And  then  she  was  silent  again. 
She  had  been  reading,  and  this  divine  truth  falling  into 
the  rich,  tender  soil  of  her  young  mind,  had  already  be 
gun  to  germinate. 

"  Mother ; "  the  child  was  now  standing  by  her 
mother,  and  looking  into  her  face,  "  Is  it  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  far  more  blessed." 

"  What  does  it  mean  by  being  more  blessed  ?  "  in 
quired  the  child. 


MORE   BLESSED   TO   GIVE.  143 

"  It  means,  that  giving  will  make  us  happier  than  re 
ceiving." 

"  Then  you  and  father  will  be  happier  to-morrow, 
than  the  rest  of  us ;  for  you  will  make  all  the  presents." 

"  Don't  you  intend  making  any  presents,  my  love  ?  " 
asked  the  mother. 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  answered  the  child.  And 
then  her  countenance  took  on  a  more  serious  aspect. 

"  It  is  hardly  fair  that  we  should  be  happiest  of  all," 
said  the  mother. 

"  You  are  best  of  all,  and  should  be  happiest  of  all," 
replied  little  Ernestine,  quickly. 

The  mother  could  not  help  kissing  her  child.  She 
said,  as  she  did  so, 

"  We  are  happy  in  our  children ;  and  whatever  in 
creases  their  happiness,  increases  ours." 

Ernestine  looked  down  to  the  floor,  and  mused  for 
some  moments.  The  good  seed  was  quickening  into 
life. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  give."  She  looked  up  as  she 
spoke,  and  there  was  a  touch  of  regret  in  her  voice. 

"  Think."     It  was  all  the  mother  said. 

The  child  thought  for  some  time. 

"  There  is  half  a  dollar  hi  rny  saving's  bank.  But 
you  know  I'm  going  to  buy  a  little  sola  for  my  baby- 
house." 


144  MORE   BLESSED   TO   GIVE. 

The  door  of  the  sitting-room  opened,  and  a  child  came 
in  with  some  coarse  aprons  and  napkins  which  her  moth 
er  had  been  making  for  the  mother  of  Ernestine.  Her 
clothes  were  poor,  and  not  warm  enough  for  the  season, 
and  she  had  on  her  head  the  wreck  of  an  old  bonnet 
that  let  in  the  wind  at  a  dozen  places.  A  few  words 
passed  between  her  and  the  lady,  and  then  she  went, 
with  quiet  steps,  from  the  room.  The  eyes  of  Ernes 
tine  were  fixed  upon  this  child  intently,  while  she  re 
mained  ;  they  followed  her  from  the  room,  and  rested 
upon  the  door  some  time  after  she  had  withdrawn.  Her 
mother,  who  had  become  interested  in  the  work  brought 
home  by  the  little  girl,  said  nothing  more  to  Ernestine, 
at  the  time,  and  so  her  thoughts  were  free  to  run  their 
own  way. 

The  evening  which  closed  in  that  day,  was  the  eve 
ning  before  Christmas. 

"  Where  is  Ernestine  ?  " 

It  was  the  child's  father  who  made  the  inquiry.  He 
had  returned  home  from  his  office  a  little  earlier  than 
usual,  and  before  the  twilight  had  given  place  to  dark 
ness. 

"  She  was  here  a  few  minutes  ago,"  replied  the  moth 
er,  and  she  lifted  her  voice,  and  called,  "  Ernestine  !  " 

But  there  was  no  answer. 

ct  Ernestine  !     Ernestine  !  " 


MORE    BLESSED    TO    GIVE.  145 

Still  no  reply  came. 

"  I  wonder  where  she  can  be  ?  " 

While  the  question  was  yet  on  her  lips,  the  street 
door  opened,  and  the  child  came  in,  with  hushed,  glid 
ing  footsteps.  She  had  a  small  package  in  her  hands, 
which,  on  seeing  her  father  and  mother,  she  made  an  ef 
fort  to  conceal. 

"  Ah  !  Here  is  our  pet !  "  said  the  father.  "  Why, 
darling,  where  have  you  been  ?  " 

There  came  a  warm  flush  into  the  little  one's  face  ; 
and  something  of  confusion  showed  itself  in  her  man 
ner. 

"  I  know  all  about  it,"  spoke  up  the  mother,  gaily. 

"  No  you  don't !  "  And  Ernestine's  face  took  on  a 
serious  aspect. 

"  Yes.     It's  the  sofa  for  the  baby-house." 

"  No."     The  flush  came  back  to  the  child's  fair  brow. 

Almost  a  minute  of  silence  passed.  It  was  a  picture 
for  a  painter,  that  group.  The  child  stood,  half  timid, 
half-irresolutely,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  her 
hands  behind  her,  endeavoring  to  conceal  the  package 
she  held ;  her  parents  looking  at  her  in  loving  wonder. 
Slowly,  at  length,  a  hand  came  forward  — 

"  What  is  it,  darling?"  The  mother's  voice  had  in 
it  a  slight  flutter,  for  something  of  the  truth  was  dawn 
ing  in  her  mind. 

7 


146  MORE   BLESSED   TO   GIVE. 

"  It  isn't  the  sofa,"  said  Ernestine. 

Her  mother  took  the  package,  and  opened  it.  It  con 
tained  a  netted  hood,  coarse,  but  warm. 

"  Who  is  this  for  ?  " 

"  I  bought  it  for  Mary  Allen." 

"  Her  Christmas  gift  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  It  was  very  kind,  and  very  thoughtful  in  you,  dear," 
said  the  mother,  speaking  calmly,  though  with  an  effort. 
And  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  lips  of  her  child. 
"  God  bless  you !  "  was  spoken  in  her  heart,  though  the 
benediction  came  not  forth  into  words. 

"  Who  is  Mary  Allen  ?  "  asked  the  father. 

"  The  child  of  a  poor  woman  who  has  done  some 
plain  sewing  for  me.  She  needs  a  warm  hood,  and  Er 
nestine's  Christmas  gift  will  be  a  timely  one,  I  am  sure." 

What  a  loving  look  was  cast  by  the  father  upon  his 
child.  How  his  heart  stirred  within  him. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mary  Allen  doesn't  need  a  pair  of  warm 
stockings,  and  stout  shoes  as  well  ?  "  he  said,  looking 
down  into  the  face  of  Ernestine. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Father  ;  I  know  she  does  !  "  The  child 
spoke  eagerly,  and  with  a  hopeful  expression  in  her 
eyes. 

"  You  shall  add  them  to  your  gift,  to-morrow,"  said 
the  father. 


MORE   BLESSED   TO    GIVE.  147 

"  I  shall  be  so  happy  !  "  And  Ernestine  clapped  her 
little  hands  together  in  the  fervor  of  her  delight. 

"  It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive."  The 
mother's  voice,  full  of  meaning  for  the  ears  of  Ernes 
tine,  trembled  as  she  uttered  these  words,  which  were 
radiant  with  light.  But  the  child  felt  their  meaning 
still  deeper,  as  she  stood  at  her  window  on  the  next  day, 
which  was  Christmas  —  a  day  of  icy  coldness  —  and 
saw  Mary  Allen  go  past,  wearing  a  comfortable  hood 
in  place  of  the  old,  thin  bonnet,  and  having  warm  stock 
ings,  and  new  shoes  upon  her  feet.  Ernestine  received 
many  beautiful  gifts  on  that  day,  and  she  was  very  hap 
py  ;  but  her  joy  in  giving  was  deeper,  purer,  and  more 
abiding,  than  her  joy  in  receiving. 


118 


THE   HELPING   HAND. 


XVI. 

THE  HELPING  HAND. 

OT  even  a  word  of  recognition  !  "     The 
speaker  was  a  woman.     Over  her  gen 
tle  face  had  fallen  a  shadow  of  disap 
pointment.     She  was  sitting  at  a  table, 
in  a  plainly  furnished  room,  with  books, 
magazines,  and  writing  materials  before 
her.     In  her  hand  was  a  literary  re 
view,   the  last  page  of  which  she  had 
just  turned. 

"  Not  even  a  word  of  recognition  !  "  she  repeated,  in 
a  tone  of  discouragement.  "  Every  book  but  mine  no 
ticed  ;  mine,  into  which  my  heart  went  with  such  a  lov 
ing  interest.  I  am  hurt,  and  can  not  help  it !  " 

She  laid  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  and  sat,  sober- 
faced,  for  a  long  time.  Then  arousing,  with  a  sigh,  she 
turned  to  the  table,  and  shutting  her  portfolio,  mur 
mured, 


THE   HELPING   HAND.  149 

"  Yes,  it  may  be  so.  Only  a  few  possess  distinguish 
ing  literary  ability  ;  only  a  few  have  power  to  command 
the  public  attention  and  move  the  public  heart.  I  am 
not,  it  seems,  of  the  number.  Ah,  well !  It  is  of  no 
use  striving  with  the  inevitable.  I  must  step  aside,  and 
give  place  to  men  and  women  of  higher  endowments." 

She  arose,  and  began  walking,  with  slow,  even  steps, 
the  floor  of  her  room.  After  a  while  she  resumed  her 
place  at  the  writing  table.  She  had  just  seated  herself 
when  a  servant  came  in  and  handed  her  two  magazines 
and  a  letter.  She  glanced  at  the  letter,  and  not  recog 
nizing  it  as  from  any  known  correspondent,  deferred 
breaking  the  seal  until  she  had  looked  into  the  maga 
zines,  which  ought  to  contain  notices  of  her  book.  Her 
hand  was  nervous  as  she  cut  the  leaves  of  the  first  one 
opened ;  and  her  eyes  went,  hurriedly,  from  page  to 
page.  Then  she  became  motionless  and  intent.  There 
was  recognition  here  !  Twice  she  read  the  notice  of 
her  book;  then  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  with  wet 
lashes  quivering  on  her  crimson  cheeks. 

"  Feeble,  commonplace,  and  harmless.  We  may  com 
mend  the  volume  to  parents  as  a  safe  one  to  introduce 
among  children." 

That  was  the  recognition. 

"  Feeble  and  commonplace."  The  tears  which  had 
wet  her  lashes  swelled  now  to  a  flood  and  ran  over  her 


150  THE  HELPING  HAND. 

cheeks.  She  was  hurt  to  the  quick.  Earnestly, 
thoughtfully,  and  with  true  and  delicate  perceptions  of 
mental  and  moral  states,  had  she  written,  thinking  more 
of  the  good  to  be  done  than  of  the  fame  to  be  acquired. 
She  had  intruded  her  consciousness,  with  a  clear  seeing 
vision,  into  the  actual  of  human  life,  and  held  a  mirror 
up  to  nature.  But  the  critic,  dipping  in  here  and  there, 
and  scanning  this  page  and  that,  out  of  all  just  connec 
tion,  saw  only  commonplace  things  and  trite  moral  sen 
timents.  No  brilliant  passages  arrested  him ;  no  gor 
geous  cloud-castles  of  thought  which  the  sun  of  reason 
dissolves  into  airy  nothings  ;  no  ambitious  paradings  of 
sounding  and  unusual  words  meant  to  conceal  meagre 
thoughts ;  no,  nothing  of  these  were  found :  and  so, 
without  taking  time  to  comprehend  the  author,  her 
book  was  thrown  aside  with  the  easy  utterance  of  "  fee 
ble,  commonplace,  and  harmless,"  and  thought  of  no 
more. 

Nearly  ten  minutes  went  by,  and  then  the  other  mag 
azine  was  opened. 

"  Writes  carelessly  at  times  "  —  a  little  more  atten 
tion  to  style  would  give  greater  acceptability  to  her 
works" — "nothing  very  brilliant  or  striking;  but  a 
deal  of  human  nature  and  solid  sense  "  —  "  will  do  good 
in  her  day,  but  scarcely  be  heard  of  in  the  next  gene 
ration  :  books  of  this  class  do  not  live." 


THE   HELPING   HAND.  151 

There  were  some  flashings  of  indignant  feeling  from 
the  no  longer  wet  eyes ;  lips  curled  proudly  and  a  little 
defiantly.  Our  author  was  but  human.  The  simple 
love  of  doing  good  was  not  strong  enough  to  bear  her 
calmly  through  an  experience  like  this. 

"  A  lady  wishes  to  see  you,"  said  the  servant,  open 
ing  the  door  again. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  was  inquired. 

The  servant  gave  her  a  card,  on  which  she  read  the 
name  of  a  friend. 

"Say  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  moment." 

The  servant  withdrew,  and  she  made  a  few  trifling 
but  hurried  changes  in  her  toilet. 

"  I  fear  my  visit  may  be  an  intrusion  on  your  time," 
said  the  friend,  as  they  stood  with  warmly  clasped  hands  ; 
"  but  I  felt  constrained  to  call  this  morning." 

"  No  visit  from  you  can  ever  be  an  intrusion,"  was 
replied.  Light  was  breaking  through  the  face  over 
which  clouds  lay  a  moment  before. 

"  I  have  just  finished  your  new  book,"  went  on  the 
visitor.  u  As  I  turned  the  last  page  I  felt  a  strong  de 
sire  to  tell  you  how  much  good  it  had  done  me.  My 
mind  was  in  darkness  as  to  a  great  principle  of  life  when 
I  commenced  reading.  This  principle  you  illustrated  in 
so  clear  a  manner  that  1  now  see  it  as  in  noonday  light. 
I  thank  you,  my  sister,  for  true  words  distinctly  spoken 


152  THE   HELPING   HAND. 

—  thank  you  not  only  in  my  own  name,  but  in  the 
name  of  thousands  to  whom  they  will  come  in  blessing. 
God  has  given  you  the  power  to  move  hearts,  and,  what 
is  still  better,  the  will  to  move  them  for  good." 

Dry  eyes  were  wet  again. 

"  There  can  be  no  higher  praise  than  this ! "  was 
modestly  answered.  "  Whatever  power  I  possess  is,  as 
you  have  said,  God's  gift ;  and  I  pray  ever  that  He  will 
show  me  how  best  to  use  it  in  His  work.  I  am  not  very 
strong  of  wing ;  I  cannot,  eagle-like,  dwell  above  the 
mountains.  At  best  I  am  a  home-bird,  singing  undei 
the  eaves,  or  cooing  at  the  windows." 

"  The  birds  we  love  and  cherish,"  said  the  friend. 
"  But  why  do  I  see  tears  on  cheeks  that  should  be  ra 
diant  with  smiles  ?  " 

"  The  heart  is  weak.  It  is  not  always  satisfied  with 
the  simple  doing  of  good.  To  do  good  is  so  easy,  so  un- 
imposing,  so  unattractive,  and  commonplace.  The  world 
admires  the  brilliant  and  the  aspiring  ;  will  stand  gazing 
at  the  eagle  as  he  rises  toward  the  sun,  all  indifferent  to 
the  robin,  the  thrush,  or  the  dove.  The  imposing  and 
the  difficult  extort  admiration,  while  a  simple  good  deed 
is  often  misjudged  as  pharisaical,  and  earnest  admoni 
tion  to  do  right  sneered  at  as  cant." 

"  Dear  friend,  I  can  not  bear  this  from  you,"  answer 
ed  the  visitor.  "  Why  in  so  strange  a  state  ?  You  are 
not  envious  of  the  eao;le  ?  " 


THE   HELPING   HAND.  153 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !     Not  envious,  I  trust." 

«  What  then  ?  " 

"  I  am  human,  and  human  nature  is  weak.  We  can 
not,  unmoved,  hear  our  work  depreciated." 

"  Has  yours  been  depreciated  ?" 

u  Yes.  This  book,  which  has  helped  you,  meets  with 
no  favor  from  critics.  One  passes  it  as  of  no  account, 
not  so  much  as  announcing  its  publication,  while  anoth 
er  calls  it  dull  and  harmless.  I  should  not  care  for  this, 
I  know.  But  the  heart  is  weak.  Such  things  hurt  and 
discourage  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  no  true  power." 

"  And  yet  you  have  power  to  move  the  heart  and  en 
lighten  the  understanding,  as  thousands  can  testify. 
You  need  not  care  for  a  superficial  or  prejudiced  critic, 
if  you  can  speak  to  the  people,  and  stir  the  common 
pulse.  Your  work  is  with  and  for  the  people.  You 
comprehend  their  daily  life-trials,  and  are  gifted  with 
ability  to  speak  to  them  understandingly.  Your  work 
is  not  to  amuse,  nor  to  extort  admiration,  but  to  help. 
You  do  not  write  from  a  poor  selfish  desire  to  get  praise 
and  fame,  but  to  do  good  —  good  in  all  degrees  of  life, 
from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  And  few,  my  friend, 
have  been  more  successful.  I  would  rather  have  your 
sheaves  in  my  garner  on  that  day  when  the  Lord  of  the 
Harvest  shall  come,  than  the  sheaves  of  any  worker  that 
I  know  in  your  field  of  labor.  I  say  this  sincerely,  and 
7* 


154  THE   HELPING   HAND. 

may  it  give  you  comfort  and  strength !  Don't,  as  Em- 
merson  says,  think,  in  your  work,  of  its  acceptability, 
but  of  its  excellence.  Do  it  always  earnestly  and  well, 
according  to  the  gifts  by  which  you  are  endowed  of 
God,  and  He  will  take  care  that  no  hand  obstruct  its 
course.  Just  so  sure  as  it  is  vital  with  the  power  of 
helping  your  brother  or  your  sister  in  weakness,  or  of 
lighting  them  in  a  dark  way,  will  He  make  your  voice 
heard." 

"  I  thank  you  for  such  strong  words  of  encourage 
ment,"  said  our  desponding  one,  as  the  calm  dignity  of 
conscious  strength  and  purity  of  motive  came  back  into 
her  face ;  "  and  thank  you,  especially,  for  that  last  sug 
gestion.  Emerson  has  struck  the  right  key  —  has  given 
the  true  philosophy.  I  have  been  thinking  more  of  the 
acceptability  of  my  work  than  of  its  excellence  ;  more 
of  what  might  be  said  of  it  than  of  what  it  was. 
Thanks,  again,  for  this  helping  hand  in  a  moment  of 
weakness  !  I  shall  be  stronger,  I  trust,  in  the  future." 

Alone,  after  this  friend  had  departed,  and  stronger 
than  before  she  came,  the  criticism  that  stung  so  sharp 
ly  was  read  again. 

"  '  Writes  carelessly  at  times.'  That  is  a  fault,"  she 
said,  "  and  should  be  corrected.  '  A  little  more  atten 
tion  to  style  would  give  greater  acceptability  to  her 
works.'  Then  it  is  my  duty  to  give  it  more  attention  ; 


THE   HELPING   HAND.  155 

and  I  will  endeavor,  and  feel  obliged  and  not  hurt  by 
the  suggestion.  '  Nothing  very  brilliant  or  striking,  but 
a  deal  of  human  nature  and  solid  sense.'  Why,  that  is 
a  positive  compliment !  I  read  it  as  a  sneer  before  ;  but 
now  it  has  a  tone  of  sincerity  and  good-will.  '  Will  do 
good  in  her  day,  but  scarcely  be  heard  of  in  the  next 
generation  ;  books  of  this  class  do  not  live.'  ' 

The  closing  sentence  touched  the  quick  again.  Not 
heard  of  in  the  next  generation  !  No  permanent  life  in 
such  books  !  It  was  hard  to  accept  of  that  judgment. 

"  But  what,"  she  asked  herself,  as  right  thoughts  took 
their  right  position  in  her  mind,  "  have  I  to  do  with  the 
next  generation  ?  My  work  is  in  the  present,  and  if  I 
can  do  good  in  my  day,  the  effect  will  not  only  go  to  the 
next  generation,  but  to  all  generations.  As  to  the  life 
of  my  work,  if  there  be  in  it  a  heavenly  vitality  it  will 
not  soon  die." 

The  letter  which  had  accompanied  the  magazines,  and 
which  had  been  forgotten,  now  looked  up  from  the  ta 
ble  and  claimed  attention.  The  seal  was  broken : 

"  DEAR  LADY, —  Forgive  this  freedom  ;  but  my  heart  is  so  full  of 
thankfulness  that  I  am  constrained  to  write.  Your  last  book  has  been 
to  me  a  saviour  and  a  consoler.  Oh,  in  what  a  midnight  of  passion  and 
error  was  my  soul  groping,  when  light  came  to  me  through  you,  and  I 
saw  a  gulf  at  my  feet  !  Back,  back,  back  I  moved,  shuddering  !  And 
now  I  am  on  firm  ground,  with  reason  clear  and  conscience  in  her  place. 
How  clearly,  yet  how  tenderly  and  lovingly,  did  you  demonstrate  a 
truth,  which,  had  it  come  to  me  in  almost  any  other  way,  I  would  have 


156  THE   HELPING   HAND. 

rejected.  But  as  a  gentle,  wise,  and  considerate  sister  you  approached 
me,  and  laying  your  hand  on  my  arm,  said  '  Come  and  let  us  reason  to 
gether.'  Yon  first  won  my  confidence,  then  beguiled  my  interest,  and 
then  told  me  the  truth  in  such  calm,' direct,  and  earnest  words  that  I 
was  convinced,  warned,  and  saved.  God  bless  you,  my  sister  I  You 
will  never  know  the  good  you  are  doing  until  it  is  revealed  in  the  world 
to  come.  Go  on  — go  on,  in  Heaven's  name  !  The  heart  of  a  stranger 
blesses  you,  and  says,  faint  not,  fail  not." 

Tears  flooded  the  lady's  face  again  ;  but  there  was 
no  bitterness  in  them  now.  The  helper  was  helped  in 
her  hour  of  weakness,  and  strengthened  against  the 
enemies  of  her  peace  —  enemies,  we  mean,  who  were 
lurking  in  her  own  bosom,  and  exciting  pride,  ambition, 
and  love  of  fame,  so  that  they  might  act  as  hindrances. 
Stronger,  calmer,  and  in  a  nobler  spirit  even  than  be 
fore,  she  turned  to  her  work  again,  and  gave  to  it  that 
living  vitality  by  which  it  had  power  to  overcome  evil 
and  establish  good.  Neglect  and  cold  unappreciative 
criticism  had  made  her  comprehend  her  own  weakness, 
and  been  the  means  of  opening  her  mind  more  interiorly, 
so  that  it  could  receive  a  higher  influx  of  light.  She 
was  stronger  and  wiser  from  self- conquest,  and  thence 
able  to  infuse  more  of  wisdom  and  human  love  in  all 
that  came  from  her  hand. 


COMING   DOWN. 


157 


XVII. 

COMING  DOWN. 


HE  "  Country  Parson,"  in  one  of  his 
essays,  has  brought  into  view  the 
difference  between  "  giving  up  "  and 
"  coming  down,"  an  essay  which  may 
be  specially  commended  to  a  class  of 
over-ambitious  people,  who  aiming  too 
high,  lose  heart  by  failure,  and  give 
up  all  aspiring  efforts,  instead  of  grace 
fully  coming  down  to  the  level  of  their 
ability,  and  on  that  plane  doing  earnest  work  in  the 
world. 

A  case  in  point  is  that  of  a  friend.  He  was,  when 
quite  a  young  man,  overweeningly  ambitious.  As  a 
boy  at  school,  he  sought  to  be  first  among  his  compan 
ions  —  head  in  the  class,  and  leader  in  the  play  ground. 
But  as  his  range  of  intellect  fell  below  that  of  certain 


158  COMING   DOWN. 

other  boys,  who,  if  not  ambitious  to  stand  higher  than 
the  rest,  still  towered  above  them  by  virtue  of  natural 
growth,  he  was  continually  in  the  experience  of  humili 
ations,  and  full  of  jealousies.  It  was  a  common  thing 
for  him  to  retire  from  the  playground,  because  another 
boy  was  selected  to  a  post  of  honor  which  he  desired  to 
fill,  thus  giving  up  and  sulking,  instead  of  coming  down 
to  the  place  assigned  him  by  general  consent,  and  filling 
it  for  his  own  pleasure  and  the  gratification  of  his 
schoolmates.  It  was  also  a  common  thing  for  him  to 
lose  temper,  pout,  and  grow  sullen,  if  rivalled  in  an  ad 
vance  position  in  the  class  through  superior  scholarship 
in  another  boy.  From  this  cause  he  gave  much  annoy 
ance  to  the  teachers,  and  involved  himself  in  unpleasant 
discipline,  and  often  in  severe  punishments. 

Such  was  my  friend  at  school.  In  selecting  a  pur 
suit  in  life,  this  weakness  of  character  came  in  as  a  de 
termining  element.  He  must,  in  some  way,  stand  out 
from,  and  above  the  common  mass.  He  must  be  distin 
guished  in  the  eyes  of 'his  fellows.  His  father,  a  care 
ful,  plodding  man  of  trade,  who  had  always  managed 
to  lay  up  something  every  year,  was  desirous  that  his 
son  should,  on  leaving  school,  enter  his  store,  and  quali 
fy  himself  to  take  part  in  a  well  established  and  sure 
business,  that  would  ultimately  fall  entirely  into  his 
hands,  but  Asa  Grant  —  that  was  my  friend's  name  — 


COMING   DOWN.  159 

shrunk  back  from  such  an  absorption  of  himself  into 
the  undistinguishable  mass  of  common  men.  His  was  a 
higher  ambition. 

There  was  trouble  at  home  about  this  choice  of  occu 
pation.  Old  Mr.  Grant  was  a  plain,  blunt  man  of  the 
world,  of  limited  education,  but  shrewd.  He  looked 
straight  through  pretension,  and  read  the  characters  of 
most  men  as  easily  as  he  could  read  the  pages  of  a  book. 
Of  his  son's  calibre  he  knew  sufficient  to  be  well  con 
vinced  that,  as  a  professional  man,  he  could  never  rise 
above  respectable  mediocrity  ;  and  the  worldly,  or  rather, 
money-advantages  appertaining  to  that  position  in  law, 
medicine  or  theology,  were  so  much  below  what  he 
could  promise  his  son  in  a  prosecution  of  the  business 
he  had  founded,  that  he  was  insensible  to  all  arguments 
on  the  side  against  which  he  had  arrayed  himself. 

But  Mrs.  Grant,  the  mother  of  Asa,  who  in  marry 
ing,  had  gone  down  a  little  —  so  thought  her  family  of 
proud  good-for-nothings,  and  so  felt  she  —  was  entirely 
on  her  son's  side.  She  was  an  ambitious  mother,  and 
encouraged  her  boy  in  his  aspirations.  Law  and  medicine 
were  both  discussed.  Slow  and  toilsome  ways  to  dis 
tinction.  Asa  looked  along  the  dreary  vista  that  open 
ed  in  advance  of  him,  as  he  soberly  debated  a  choice  be 
tween  these  two  professions,  and  at  times  his  heart 
would  fail.  No  wonder  that  he  hesitated.  There  was 


160  COMING   DOWN. 

no  royal  road  to  eminence  for  him.  He  must  win  the 
goal,  if  at  all,  like  an  Olympian  racer,  through  strength 
and  speed. 

My  friend  did  not  lack  conceit.  He  rated  his  intel 
lectual  powers  at  a  high  average.  No  modest  doubts 
were  likely  to  hold  him  back  from  a  contest  in  any  are 
na.  His  decision  was  bending  in  favor  of  law,  influ 
enced  by  certain  triumphs  in  a  debating  club,  because, 
as  a  lawyer,  he  would  get  more  distinctly  in  range  of 
the  public  eye  than  as  a  physician,  when  an  event  oc 
curred  that  changed  the  whole  direction  of  his  thoughts. 
This  event  was  a  "  revival "  in  the  church  to  which  his 
parents  belonged.  Drawn  into  the  sphere  of  this,  and 
making,  in  consequence,  certain  new  acquaintances 
among  clergymen  and  young  men  piously  inclined,  the 
leading  impulses  of  his  mind  opened  the  way  for  a  new 
influx  of  ideas.  The  pulpit  was  to  become  his  arena. 

So  my  friend  elected  to  study  for  the  ministry.  Af 
ter  sundry  contests  with  his  father  on  the  subject,  in 
which  his  mother  was  uniformly  on  his  side,  the  old 
gentleman  yielded  a  reluctant  consent,  and  Asa  went 
for  a  couple  of  years  to  a  theological  seminary.  Here 
our  ways  separated,  and  we  met,  afterwards,  only  at  un- 
frequent  interval,  though,  by  letter,  we  often  held  com 
munication.  Notwithstanding  the  weak  side  of  Grant's 
character,  he  had  many  good  qualities,  and  I  was  sin- 


COMING  DOWN.  161 

cerely  attached  to  him.  After  leaving  college,  he  was 
invited  to  fill  a  pulpit  in  a  small  town  of  New  Jersey. 
In  a  letter  received  from  him  at  this  time,  and  while  de 
bating  whether  to  accept  or  decline  the  invitation,  he 
said  :  "  I  can't  think  of  burying  myself  in  a  little  coun 
try  village,  among  boorish  and  illiterate  people.  I  have 
talents  and  aspirations  for  something  better."  My  an 
swer  to  this  sentence  was  :  "  The  work  that  comes  to 
your  hand,  do  with  all  your  might.  If  I  understand  it, 
the  souls  of  boorish  and  illiterate  people,  as  you  call 
them,  are  quite  as  precious  in  God's  eyes  as  the  souls  of 
the  most  refined  and  educated.  Bear  in  mind,  my 
friend,  that  you  have  entered  upon  His  work,  and  do 
not  hesitate  about  going  to  any  part  of  the  field  His 
providence  may  indicate."  He  replied  from  the  parish 
which  had  given  him  his  first  call,  informing  me  that  he 
had  concluded  to  accept,  and  giving  as  his  chief  reason 
the  pulpit  practice  he  would  gain. 

He  remained  two  years  in  this  place,  seeking,  during 
the  time,  all  available  opportunities  to  exchange  with 
other  ministers,  in  order  to  get  before  as  many  congre 
gations  as  possible,  and  thus  acquire  something  beyond 
a  local  reputation.  He  also  wrote  for  the  various  peri 
odicals  of  his  church,  generally  signing  his  name  to  his 
articles,  or  in  some  way  indicating  their  authorship.  I 
often  received  copies  of  these  articles,  marked  for  my 


162  COMING   DOWN. 

special  attention.  They  were  tolerably  well  written,  but 
only  from  the  memory.  I  could  rarely  find  a  trace  of 
original  thought.  At  the  end  of  two  years,  and  after 
the  event  of  preaching  three  unsuccessful  trial  sermons 
before  a  New  York  congregation  that  was  seeking  for  a 
minister,  my  friend  resigned  his  pulpit,  and  came  home 
to  his  father's  to  recreate,  and  also  to  work  for  a  call 
from  some  better  parish  than  the  one  under  the  bushel 
of  which  he  had  been  hiding  his  light.  Rather  than 
"  come  down  "  to  the  level  of  humbler  duties  that  fitted 
his  tastes,  he  was  willing  to  "  give  up,"  at  least  for  a 
while. 

A  year  of  unsatisfying  idleness  was  followed  by  the 
acceptance  of  another  call  from  a  country  parish.  "  I 
am  going  to  bury  myself  again."  So  he  wrote  on  leav 
ing  for  his  new  home.  This  sentence  tells  the  story  of 
his  state.  Here  he  preached,  and  wrote  for  the  church 
periodicals,  and  aspired  to  a  more  notable  position  for 
two  or  three  years,  when  a  party  in  the  congregation,  that 
saw  through  him,  became  strong  enough  to  induce  a 
resignation.  Half  disgusted  with  his  profession,  my 
friend  went  home,  and  spent  another  period  of  fretful 
inaction.  What  particularly  galled  him  was  the  fact 
that  ministers,  far  his  inferior  in  every  way,  according  as 
he  estimated  them  —  were  selected  for  the  most  desira 
ble  places,  while  he,  to  use  his  own  language,  was  "  left 
out  in  the  cold." 


COMING   DOWN.  163 

Ten  years  afterwards  I  met  my  friend  again.  Dur 
ing  this  interval  of  time  I  had  nearly  lost  sight  of  him, 
our  paths  in  life  having  taken  a  strong  divergence. 
Stepping  from  a  railroad  car  at  a  watering  station,  near 
a  village  in  central  New  York,  I  met  Grant  on  the 
platform.  The  meeting  was  one  of  genuine  pleasure  on 
both  sides.  I  had  only  left  the  car  in  order  to  stretch 
my  limbs  and  get  a  few  drafts  of  pure  air,  while  the  en 
gineer  supplied  himself  with  water ;  but  my  friend  in 
sisted  that  I  should  give  him  a  day  or  two,  for  the  sake 
of  4£  auld  lang  syne,"  and  as  my  journey  was  for  health, 
not  business,  I  yielded  on  short  debate.  A  drive  of 
half  an  hour,  through  pleasant  country  lanes,  in  my 
friend's  carriage,  brought  me  to  a  snug  cottage,  just 
outside  of  a  thrifty  looking  village,  into  which  I  was 
ushered,  and  presented  to  Mrs.  Grant,  whom  I  had  nev-' 
er  seen  before.  My  friend  had  been  married  seven 
years.  His  wife  impressed  me,  at  the  first  glance,  as  a 
woman  of  character  and  cultivation.  Her  eyes  were 
large  and  serious,  and  rested  on  my  face,  as  she  offered 
her  hand,  with  a  look  of  searching  inquiry.  I  noticed 
this  peculiarity  —  the  look  of  inquiry,  almost  suspicious 
—  and  it  gave  me  a  feeling  of  discomfort.  It  was  so 
much  taken  from  the  cordial  welcome  of  my  friend. 
Apart  from  this,  my  impression  of  Mrs.  Grant  was  fa 
vorable,  and  I  was  soon  aware  that  she  was  a  woman 
of  more  than  common  intelligence. 


164  COMING  DOWN. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I  arrived.  Tea 
was  served  early,  and  after  tea  we  went  to  my  friend's 
study,  his  wife,  who  had  become  interested  in  our  con 
versation,  accompanying  us.  It  was  natural  that  I 
should  inquire  as  to  my  friend's  life  and  prospects. 
This  was  a  subject  nearest  his  heart,  as  quickly  appeared. 

"I  am  simply  buried  in  this  place,"  was  his  response, 
in  a  dissatisfied  voice. 

I  noticed  a  movement  in  his  wife,  and  glancing  to 
wards  her,  saw  that  she  was  looking  regretfully,  almost 
sadly,  at  her  husband. 

"  How  large  is  your  congregation  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  above  three  hundred  average  attendance,"  he 
replied,  in  a  depreciating  tone.  "  A  congregation  of 
three  hundred  poorly  educated  people,  in  an  out-of-the- 
way  country  town,  is  a  settlement,  after  some  twelve  or 
fourteen  years  in  the  ministry,  wholly  outside  of  my 
poorest  anticipations.  I  looked  for  something  higher,  as 
you  well  know.  For  a  wider  sphere  —  an  arena  worthy 
of  myself." 

I  noticed  a  shadow  falling  over  his  wife's  face  as  he 
thus  talked.  Not  venturing  a  response,  my  friend  con 
tinued  : 

"  I  am  about  discouraged.  Men  of  half  my  ability 
—  pardon  this  seeming  egotism  ;  but  every  man  knows, 
or  ought  to  know,  the  range  of  his  capacity  as  com- 


COMING   DOWN.  165 

pared  with  that  of  others  —  are  preferred  before  me, 
and  selected  by  city  congregations  that  I  could  serve 
with  double  their  effectiveness.  There  is  something 
wrong  in  all  this  ;  management  and  underhand  work,  I 
must  conclude.  Forgive  my  reference  to  an  unpleas 
ant  subject,  but  I  am  feeling  sore  just  now.  A  parish 
in  Albany  was  vacant,  and  I  was  invited  to  spend  a  few 
weeks  there  and  preach,  in  order  that  the  people  might 
have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  and  hearing  me.  I  went 
as  desired,  and  preached  four  times.  I  never  had  a 
more  attentive  and  sympathetic  audience  — -  never  was 
more  in  freedom  —  never  liked  a  people  in  their  social 
relations,  as  far  as  I  came  in  contact  with  them,  half  so 
well  as  I  liked  the  people  of  that  parish.  I  could  un 
derstand  them,  and  they  could  understand  me.  Two 
months  have  passed  since  my  visit,  and  during  all  that 
time  I  daily  looked  for  a  call.  Imagine  my  disappoint 
ment  —  my  chagrin  —  on  opening  our  church  paper 
yesterday,  to  find  announced  the  call  to  this  very  con 
gregation  of  a  third-rate  man,  brother  to  one  of  the 
most  influential  members.  I  am  disgusted  at  all  this  ! 
It  doesn't  suit  me.  The  right  man  should  be  in  the 
right  place.  He  is  not  in  the  right  place,  and  I  am  not 
in  mine.  After  thirteen  years  of  unappreciated  and 
nearly  fruitless  labor  in  the  ministry,  I  have  about 
reached  the  conclusion  that  it  is  time  to  abandon  the 
field." 


166  COMING   DOWN. 

I  saw  the  shadow  falling  more  heavily  over  his  wife's 
face ;  saw  moisture  gathering  in  her  large  eyes,  that 
were  dwelling  upon  him. 

"  Three  hundred  souls,"  I  remarked,  in  the  silence 
that  followed  his  concluding  sentence,  speaking  deliber 
ately,  and  with  an  impressiveness  of  manner  that  corres 
ponded  with  my  feelings,  "  are  precious  fruits,  if  you 
can  garner  them  in  the  harvest  time." 

A  light  flashed  over  Mrs.  Grant's  countenance,  and 
she  gave  me  a  single  grateful  look,  that  was  a  revelation 
of  her  state ;  then  rising,  at  the  call  of  a  child,  she 
left  the  study.  Her  husband  regarded  me  in  evident 
surprise,  and  some  perplexity  of  thought.  He  had  not 
anticipated  such  a  response. 

"  Three  hundred  souls,  committed  to  your  care  by 
God,  make  your  position  one  of  high  responsibility,"  I 
resumed,  as  his  wife  closed  the  door,  and  we  were  alone. 
"  Shall  I  speak  out  freely  of  what  is  now  in  my 
thought  ?  or  will  you  regard  the  plain  speech  of  an  old 
friend  as  intrusive  ?  " 

"  Hold  nothing  back.  I  know  your  heart."  There 
was  a  low  thrill  in  his  voice,  as  if  from  the  presence  of 
sudden  pain,  or  dread.  Evidently,  my  language  had 
formed  the  basis  in  his  mind  of  some  startling  convic 
tions. 

"  I  see  that  time  and  experience  have  not  changed 
you  in  one  particular,"  I  said. 


COMING   DOWN.  167 

"What?" 

"  As  a  young  man  you  were  ambitious.'* 

"  I  was,  and  I  am." 

"  Ambitious  for  what  ?  " 

"  To  excel,"  he  replied.  "  To  be  first  in  whatever 
I  undertake." 

"  For  the  sake  of  excellence  or  use  ?  "  I  queried. 

"  For  the  sake  of  use,  I  hope."  But  his  voice  drop 
ped  from  its  tone  of  confidence. 

I  did  not  resume  immediately,  that  he  might  have 
time  to  look  inward,  in  self-examination. 

"  Let  me  suggest  a  query,"  I  said,  after  a  brief  si 
lence. 

"  Say  on."  He  shrunk  a  little  in  his  arm-chair,  as  if 
bracing  himself  for  a  painful  thrust. 

"  Perhaps  we  had  better  change  the  subject,  and  talk 
pleasantly  of  old  times." 

"  No  —  no,"  he  replied,  firmly.  "  Say  on.  You 
have  opened  a  window  in  my  thoughts,  through  which 
a  few  rays  of  light  are  streaming.  Perhaps  you  can 
give  me  more  light.  At  any  rate,  I  wish  to  hear." 

I  then  said : 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you,  that  an  humbler  esti 
mate  of  your  abilities  than  the  one  you  have  maintained, 
might  be  nearer  the  truth  ?  That,  in  fact,  you  have 
always  soared,  in  thought,  too  high ;  and  that,  to  be 


168  COMING   DOWN. 

really  useful,  according  to  the  range  of  your  ability,  you 
must  come  down  to  your  work  in  a  lower  sphere  ?  " 

It  was  painful  to  see  the  effect  of  this,  striking  as  it 
did  at  his  very  self-hood  —  at  the  very  life-impulses  of 
his  whole  character.  His  face  grew  very  pale  ;  his  lips 
fell  slowly  apart ;  his  eyes  rounded  into  an  almost  fright 
ened  stare. 

"  It  will  not  do,"  I  continued,  "  for  God's  minister  to 
act  over  his  school-boy  weaknesses  ;  to  refuse  to  spell  be 
cause  another  has  got  above  him  in  the  class  —  to  give 
up  because  he  must  go  down." 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  that  he  might 
conceal  from  me  the  emotions  he  could  not  repress.  I 
saw  that  a  low  quiver  was  running  through  his  frame. 

"  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  ^his,  my  friend,  to 
hurt !  I  speak  from  my  high  regard  —  from  my  yearn 
ing  wish  to  serve.  I  meet  you,  in  a  great  crisis  of 
your  life,  at  a  point  where  two  ways  open  before  you, 
and  I  am  concerned  that  you  take  the  right  way.  I 
find  you  with  three  hundred  souls  in  charge,  yet  com 
plaining  that  you  have  not  scope  and  verge  enough. 
The  Lord  of  the  vineyard  may  possibly  know  best ; 
and  I  think  you  will  be  happier  if  you  diligently  work 
the  field  where  He  has  placed  you  ;  if  you  come  down 
to  a  sphere  lower  than  your  ambition  has  desired,  and, 
doing  your  duty,  leave  all  the  rest  to  Him. 


COMING   DOWN.  169 

For  the  space  of  several  minutes  he  sat  with  his  face 
still  hidden.  I  was  in  doubt  whether  I  had  helped  or 
offended  him.  But  I  had  gone  as  far  as  I  thought  pru 
dent,  and  so  awaited  his  response.  It  came.  With 
drawing  his  hands  from  his  face,  that  was  still  pale,  but 
now  wearing  a  subdued  aspect,  he  said : 

"  What  a  revelation  of  myself  you  have  given  !  In 
all  these  dissatisfied,  unprofitable  years,  I  have  been 
striving  for  a  position  ;  seeking  for  the  praise  of  men  ; 
contending  for  honors  —  instead  of  bringing  my  life 
down  into  my  work  with  the  sole  end  of  doing  good. 
You  have  hurt  me  in  a  tender  place  —  you  have 
revealed  my  nakedness  —  but  you  are  the  truest  friend 
of  my  life,  and  even  in  this  moment  of  bitter  suf 
fering  I  offer  thanks.  Three  hundred  souls  to  care  for ; 
three  hundred  souls  to  lead  heavenward  —  and  yet 
impatient  for  a  wider  sphere  !  If  not  faithful  with 
three  hundred,  shall  I  be  trusted  with  thousands  ?  " 

The  study  door  opened  quietly,  and  his  wife  came  in. 
My  friend  ceased  speaking. 

44  Am  I  intruding?"  Mrs.  Grant  paused  a  few 
steps  from  the  door. 

"  Not  at  all,"  was  my  answer,  rising  to  make  room 
for  her. 

But  her  eyes  were  on  her  husband's  countenance. 
She  saw  in  it  a  great  change.  It  was  for  him  to  say 

whether  her  presence  were  acceptable  or  not. 

8 


170  COMING   DOWN. 

"  Sit  down,  Margaret."  He  spoke  kindly,  yet  very 
soberly.  I  noticed  that  her  face  was  full  of  eager  ques 
tionings,  and  that  she  looked  on  him  with  a  most  ten 
der  yet  anxious  concern. 

"  I  shall  not  leave  here,  Margaret."  I  saw  her  coun 
tenance  lighten. 

"  I  shall  not  abandon  my  work  because  it  lies  out  of 
the  sphere  of  general  observation,  and  does  not  reward 
me  with  the  praises  of  men.  God  helping  me,  I  will 
come  down  to  it  in  a  spirit  of  self-denial  and  self-devo 
tion,  justly  accordant  with  the  office  I  have  assumed." 

It  was  as  if  a  gleam  of  sunshine  had  been  flung 
across  the  face  of  Mrs.  Grant.  I  saw  her  eyes  glisten. 

"  Go  up  to  it,  rather,"  I  said,  "  on  the  stairway  of 
.  spiritual  ascent  —  up,  interiorly,  to  higher  planes  of  life 
and  usefulness.  The  coming  down  of  which  you  speak 
is  only  a  descent  on  the  external  and  worldly  side,  in 
order  that  you  may  rise  on  the  inner  and  spiritual  side 
to  mountain  hights  that  reach  upward  into  heaven." 

Mrs.  Grant  turned  and  looked  at  me  while  I  spoke 
with  a  glad  and  grateful  expression.  I  noticed  that  she 
had  little  to  say,  and  that  when  she  did  speak  her  words 
were  guarded,  lest  her  husband's  sensitive  pride  should 
in  any  way  be  hurt,  and  thus  obscurity  of  mind  follow. 
She  saw  the  true  way  opening  before  him,  and  trembled 
in  fear  of  some  obstruction  that  might  turn  him  aside 


COMING   DOWN.  171 

ere  sufficient  progress  wore  made  to  show  him  the  bet 
ter  country  through  which  he  was  journeying. 

As  we  sat  at  breakfast  on  the  next  morning,  I  spoke 
of  leaving  in  the  afternoon.  My  friend  would  not  hear 
to  it ;  and  his  wife,  who  had  received  me  with  almost  a 
suspicous  scrutiny,  joined  warmly  in  her  husband's  plea, 
that  I  would  remain  at  least  another  day. 

"Not  yet,"  she  said,  on  the  following  afternoon,  as  I 
sat  alone  with  her,  and,  in  a  pause  of  the  conversation, 
referred  to  the  succeeding  day  as  that  of  my  departure. 
"  Remain  a  little  longer  with  us.  You  are  the  truest 
friend  my  husband  has  known,  for  you  have  helped  him 
to  an  understanding  of  himself.  The  thought  of  his 
giving  'up  because  dissatisfied  with  the  sphere  of  labor  in 
which  God's  providence  has  placed  him,  instead  of  com 
ing  right  down  with  earnestness  into  his  work,  pained 
me  beyond  expression.  I  could  not  help  him  with  my 
woman's  reasonings  ;  and  my  perceptions  did  not  pene 
trate  his  thoughts.  He  could  not  see  as  I  saw,  nor  feel 
as  I  felt ;  and  I  knew  that  he  was  drifting  away  from 
safe  anchorage.  God  sent  you  in  the  right  time,  and 
put  right  words  in  your  mouth.  Stay  yet  a  little  long 
er,  and  speak  other  words,  each  of  which  shall  be  as  a 
nail  in  a  sure  place." 

My  visit  was  prolonged  for  nearly  a  week.  On  leav 
ing  my  friend  he  said,  as  he  held  my  hand  with  a  tight 
grip: 


172  COMING  DOWN. 

I  will  be  no  longer  as  a  school-boy,  pouting  and 
giving  up  because  I  cannot  be  head  ;  but  a  man,  doing 
the  best  I  can  wherever  I  am." 

"  And  thus,"  I  answered,  "  you  will  grow  wiser,  bet 
ter,  and  stronger  every  day,  and,  like  water,  find  by  an 
unfailing  law,  the  level  of  your  ability." 

In  the  years  that  followed  my  friend  went  up  to  a 
higher  place,  both  externally  and  internally.  A  weak 
ambition  had  hindered  a  just  development  of  his  powers. 
But  in  coming  down  to  the  work  in  hand,  and  entering 
into  it  with  a  patient  effort  to  do  it  well,  he  naturally 
grew  wiser  and  stronger,  and,  in  due  time,  was  called 
to  richer  and  broader  fields  where  he  now  labors.  In 
"  going  down"  he  had  not  "  given  up,"  and  here  lay 
the  secret  of  his  right  development. 


THE   POET'S   LESSON. 


173 


XVIII. 

THE  POET'S  LESSON. 

'HO  does  not,  at  times,  grow 
weary  over  his  work?  Who  is 
not  often  discouraged  at  the  small 
return  of  fruit  that  appears  as  the 
result  of  his  labor  ?  The  preach 
er,  the  poet  and  the  novelist,  scat 
ter  the  seeds  of  truth  to  the  right 
hand  and  to  the  left  —  over  the 
plowed  field  and  by  the  barren  wayside  —  and  then  go 
on  their  ways.  The  seed  may  strike  its  living  roots  into 
the  inviting  soil,  and  send  up  green  blades  to  flutter  in 
the  sunshine  ;  and  there  may  come  sweet  blossoms,  with 
fruits  and  grain  —  yet,  the  preacher  and  the  poet  may 
never  hear  of  the  golden  harvests  that  crowned  their 
labor  with  blessings.  They  would  be  more  than  human, 
were  they  not  often  discouraged ;  did  not  often  faint  by 
the  way  ;  sighed  not,  often,  for  a  wider  and  clearer  re 
sponse. 


THE    POET'S    LESSON. 


So  it  was  with  Adrian,  the  poet  and  teacher  of  life- 
lessons,  whose  voice  found  echoes  in  thousands  and  thou 
sands  of  hearts  all  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
land.  So  it  was,  with  him,  as  he  sat  alone  on  New 
Year's  Eve,  listening  now  to  the  shrill  whistle  of  the 
blast  without,  and  now  to  its  sobbings  and  meanings,  as 
it  lingered  along  the  shaggy  eaves,  and  among  the  gables 
and  towering  chimneys. 

Adrian  was  sadder  than  usual  on  this  wintry  New 
Year's  Eve.  The  hand  of  some  unkindly  spirit  had 
found  its  way  to  his  heart  strings  and  swept  them  with 
discordant  pulsations. 

"  Is  not  my  work  lighter  than  vanity  ?  "  Thus  he 
spoke  with  himself,  moodily  and  despondingly.  "  What 
are  the  airy  rhymes  of  a  poet,  or  the  light  tissues  of 
fable,  romance  and  story,  that  are  woven  by  his  pen  ? 
Does  not  the  wind  bear  them  up  and  away  as  if  they 
were  gossamer  ?  A  blast  of  the  angry  tempest,  and 
where  are  they  ?  The  statesman  wields  a  nation's  des 
tiny.  He  sets  his  mark  upon  the  age,  and  history  points 
back  to  him  through  a  thousand  generations.  The  mer 
chant  brings  together  the  very  ends  of  the  earth,  and 
unites  empires  by  bonds  of  mutual  benefits.  Look  at 
the  engineer,  the  builder,  the  sublime  astronomer,  the 
noble  historian  !  Alas  !  Am  I  not  the  weakest,  the 
poorest,  the  meanest  in  the  world  ?  Let  me  die,  and 
make  no  sign." 


THE  POET'S  LESSON.  175 

Unhappy  Adrian  !  What  false  spirit  hast  thou  ad 
mitted  into  the  guest-chamber  of  reason  ?  It  has  not 
always  been  so  with  thee.  Not  many  days  have  passed 
since  a  deep  and  pure  delight  was  given  thee  in  thy 
work  —  a  delight  passing  the  comprehension  of  many. 

The  evening  waned,  and  Adrian,  having  wearied  him 
self  with  unhappy  thoughts  and  feelings,  sunk  quietly 
away  into  sleep.  Blessed  sleep  !  How  opportunely  it 
conies,  with  its  veil  of  oblivion.  Blessed  sleep  !  Is 
there  a  dweller  upon  the  earth  who  has  not  uttered 
these  words  in  fervent  thankfulness  many,  many  times  ? 
Sleep  changes  the  progressive  order  of  our  lives.  Voli 
tion  ceases,  and  with  volition  the  fret  and  fever  of  ex 
istence.  As  the  action  of  all  voluntary  muscle  in  the 
body  ceases,  so  ceases  the  action  of  all  the  voluntary 
faculties  of  the  mind.  Come  we  then,  of  course,  more 
directly  under  heavenly  guardianship,  and  heavenly  in 
fluence.  How  sweetly  is  the  spirit  tranquilized  !  No 
matter  how  violently  may  have  raged  the  storms  of  pas 
sion  ere  nature  claimed  her  hours  of  sleep,  the  morning 
surely  comes  to  us  in  calmness  and  peace. 

Adrian  slept ;  and  there  came  dreams  to  his  sleep. 
One  dream  was  after  this  wise  : 

He  was  walking  across  a  barren  field,  along  a  narrow 
path  that  led  him  at  last  to  the  door  of  a  poor  laborer's 
cottage.  It  was  near  the  close  of  day.  In  the  door  of 


176  THE   POST'S   LESSON. 

the  cottage  sat  a  woman,  and  two  children  stood  by  her, 
listening  attentively  while  she  read.  They  did  not  ap 
pear  to  notice  Adrian,  though  he  drew  so  close  to  them 
that  he  could  hear  every  word  that  fell  from  the  wo 
man's  lips.  Suddenly  his  heart  leaped  with  a  strange 
delight.  The  words  to  which  she  was  giving  voice  were 
his  own  words.  He  had  written  them  many  years  be 
fore,  earnestly  desiring  that  they  might  find  their  way 
into  children's  hearts,  and  bear  with  them  a  blessing. 

The  mother  read  on,  and  the  children  leaned  towards 
her.  Adrain  saw  that  the  pure  lessons  he  had  given 
were  sinking  into  their  young  minds. 

"  I  will  be  like  that  good  man,"  said  one  of  the  chil 
dren,  as  his  mother  ceased  reading. 

"  And  I  will  try  to  be  like  the  sweet  young  lady,  his 
daughter,"  said  the  other. 

"  Such  good  examples,  my  children,  are  for  our  imi 
tation,"  answered  the  mother.  "  We  are  poor,  but  we 
may  all  have  the  riches  about  which  we  are  told  in  the 
story  —  riches  of  love  and  wisdom  from  our  Father  in 
Heaven.  Possessing  these,  we  can  do  much  good  to 
others  as  we  pass  through  life ;  and  to  do  good,  my  chil 
dren,  is  to  be  happy." 

Like  one  of  those  dissolving  views  that  charm  while  they 
delude  the  senses,  changed  this  humble  scene  into  one  of 
external  grace  and  beauty.  Adrian  was  in  the  luxuri- 


THE   POET'S  LESSON.  177 

ous  apartment  of  a  lady  grown  life-weary  through  idle 
ness.  She  lay,  half  reclined,  on  a  sofa,  her  countenance 
wearing  a  fretful  aspect.  As  before,  his  presence  seem 
ed  not  observed.  Sighs  parted  her  lips  —  sad  words 
were  uttered  —  her  restless  body  was  constantly  chang 
ing  its  positions. 

"  Oh,  I  am  wretched,!  "  she  murmured.  "  Existence 
is  a  tiresome  burden.  It  were  better  to  die  and  be  at 
rest,  than  live  this  aimless,  miserable  life." 

Even  while  she  spoke,  a  beautiful  young  maiden  came 
gliding  into  the  room.  She  held  an  open  book  in  her 
hand.  With  a  winning  smile,  she  said  — 

44  Oh,  Aunt,  I  have  found  something  that  you  will  be 
charmed  to  hear.  Let  me  read  it  to  you." 

14  No,  child  "  —  and  the  lady  put  up  her  hands.  "  I 
am  in  no  mood  for  reading." 

But  the  sweet  girl  would  take  no  denial.  Drawing 
an  ottoman  to  the  lady's  feet,  she  sat  down  and  read. 
How  familiar  was  the  language  which  fell  from  her  lips  ! 
Adrian  listened.  It  was  a  simple  allegory  that  the 
maiden  read ;  yet  the  truth  it  illustrated  could  not  fail, 
if  it  reached  any  mind,  to  awaken  aspirations  towards 
goodness.  And  he  had  composed  that  allegory  years 
gone  by  —  composed,  and  sent  it  forth  on  its  mission. 

At  first,  the  lady  was  restless ;  and  it  was  plain  that 
she  repressed  her  impatience  only  by  an  effort.  But  all 


178 


at  once  she  became  quiet,  and  leaned  her  head  in  a  lis 
tening  attitude  ;  nor  did  she  move  until  the  reading  was 
over  —  then  the  whole  aspect  of  her  face  was  changed. 
It  was  no  longer  depressed,  nor  fretful,  but  had  about  it 
a  calmness  and  elevation  that  was  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"  I  knew  that  it  would  stir  your  soul  with  better  feel 
ings,  Aunt,"  said  the  maiden. 

"  And  it  has  done  so,"  was  the  earnestly  spoken  re 
ply.  "  If  I  could  only  rest  in  the  teachings  of  that 
charming  little  story  —  could  only,  as  the  sweet  lady 
therein  described,  forget  myself  in  loving  others  —  life 
would  put  on  a  new  charm.  Thanks  to  the  author  for 
his  lesson  of  wisdom  !  Do  you  know  his  name,  my 
child  ?" 

Adrian  held  his  breath.  He  knew  that  his  own  name 
would  come  in  music  from  the  maiden's  lips,  and  it  did 
come,  sending  through  every  fibre  of  his  spirit  a  thrill 
of  exquisite  pleasure. 

"  May  God  bless  him  for  the  good  he  has  done  !  " 
said  the  lady,  warmly.  "  And  may  God  help  me  to 
profit  well  by  the  lesson  I  have  now  received." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  to-day  on  a  visit  to  old  Mrs. 
Armour  ? "  asked  the  maiden,  pressing  to  immediate 
action  the  good  impulses  that  were  stirring  in  the  heart 
of  the  lady. 

"  To-day  ?  "  There  was  an  air  of  reluctance  about 
the  speaker. 


THE  POET'S  LESSON.  179 

"Yes,  to-day,  Aunt.  Remember  the  lady  in  the 
story,  and  her  motto  —  '  Let  no  good  impulse  wait  un 
til  to-morrow. '  Mrs.  Armour  will  be  so  glad  to  see 
you." 

Thus  urged  the  lady  consented.  And  so  the  story 
of  Adrain  brought  a  double  blessing,  and  he  had  his  re 
ward. 

Faded  this  scene  like  the  other  ;  and  now  a  low  wail 
of  grief  penetrated  his  ears.  Looking  up,  he  saw  a  wo 
man  heavily  draped  in  the  garments  of  mourning.  She 
sat  by  a  table  on  which  lay  some  books.  In  her  hand 
she  held  the  miniature  of  her  child  ;  and  Adrian  knew 
that  it  was  her  child,  and  that  it  had  passed  upwards  to 
dwell  with  angels.  Tears  blinded  the  grieving  mother's 
eyes,  as  she  tried  to  look  upon  the  pictured  face  of  her 
departed.  Friend  after  friend  came  into  the  room,  and 
sought  to  comfort  the  mourner ;  but  she  turned  from 
them,  and  wept  on.  Their  words  had  in  them  no  touch 
of  healing.  And  so  they  left  her  alone  in  her  sorrow. 
All  grief  spends  itself,  sobbing  away  into  silence,  like 
the  departing  tempest.  The  lady  grew  calm  at  length  ; 
and  thought  began  to  reach  out  from  the  darkness 
wherein  it  was  shrouded,  to  find  something  upon  which 
it  could  rest  and  gain  support  in  this  hour  of  bitter  trial. 
Now  her  hand  moved  upon  the  books  that  lay  upon  the 
table ;  now  it  rested  upon  a  volume  in  blue  and  gold  ; 


180  THE  POET'S  LESSON. 

and  now  a  page  was  opened  before  her,  and  her  eyes 
fell  upon  words  that  instantly  fixed  her  attention.  The 
book  was  one  of  Adrian's  —  he  knew  it  at  a  glance. 

The  lady  read,  and  a  gradual  change  was  soon  appar 
ent.  The  almost  hopeless  anguish  of  her  countenance 
softened  away  into  resignation  —  and  her  eyes,  so  stony 
in  their  expression  a  little  while  before,  were  growing 
tender,  meek,  and  patient.  Closing  the  book,  at  length, 
she  lifted  her  gaze  upwards  and  said,  in  a  subdued 
voice  — 

"  Father,  I  thank  thee  for  these  words  of  comfort  and 
hope,  that  must  have  been  written  for  me.  Upon  the 
darkness  of  my  sorrow  light  has  broken.  A  veil  has 
been  drawn  aside,  and  I  see  that  in  love  thou  hast  vis 
ited  me  —  for  only  in  love  are  thy  dealings  with  the 
children  of  men.  By  thy  inspiration  has  the  poet  spok 
en  ;  and  I  take  his  words  as  messages  from  thee.  Thy 
hand  is  near  me  in  this  grief,  and  thy  arm  is  extended 
to  support  me.  Light  has  come  through  the  heavily 
curtained  windows,  and  I  see  thy  Providence  as  in  noon 
day  light." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  lady's  eyes  fell  to  the  book, 
and  she  read  on  again. 

"  Thanks,  Poet  and  Comforter !  Thy  mission  is 
high  and  noble,"  she  said,  closing  the  book  at  length. 
"  May  Heaven's  choicest  blessings  be  showered  upon 
thy  heart." 


181 


And  this  scene  changed  also.  Adrian  was  now  in 
the  street,  moving  along  with  the  promiscuous  crowd. 
Two  young  men  went  by  him.  They  were  in  conver 
sation.  Something  impelled  him  to  follow  ;  and,  as  he 
did  so,  he  heard  all  that  passed  between  them.  One, 
the  youngest,  seemed  bent  on  doing  something,  from  the 
consummation  of  which  his  older  companion  was  trying 
to  dissuade  him.  But,  though  he  urged  many  strong 
considerations,  the  boy  —  for  he  was  only  a  boy,  in  fact 
—  swerved  not  a  hair  from  his  purpose. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  said,  with  all  the  firmness  he  could 
assume.  "  Leave  me,  I  say  !  " 

"  No,  Edward,  my  friend,  I  cannot  leave  you,"  an 
swered  the  elder  companion.  "  You  are  wrong  to  put 
yourself  in  the  way  of  temptation." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me.  I  know  myself,"  was  returned, 
with  considerable  impatience  of  manner. 

"  I  do  fear  for  you.  You  do  not  know  yourself  nor 
the  almost  irresistible  influence  which  a  number  of  per 
sons,  all  consenting  to  a  single  act,  have  over  individu 
als  who  come  within  their  sphere." 

"  It  is  in  vain  ;  and  now  good  night.  Let  us  part 
here.  I  will  see  you  to-morrow  morning.  Good 
night  !  " 

And  the  determined  boy  sought  to  escape  from  his 
friend  ;  but  the  friend  loved  him  too  truly  to  suffer  him 


182  THE  POET'S  LESSON. 

to  go,  alone,  into  paths  where  a  false  step  might  prove 
his  ruin.  Laying  hold  upon  his  arm,  he  said,  in  a  tone 
full  of  interest  and  persuasion  — 

"  Edward,  let  me  repeat  to  you  something  which  I 
read  in  a  book  to-day.  It  arrested  my  attention  at  the 
time,  and  now  comes  up  in  my  thoughts  with  singular 
vividness." 

"  To-morrow,  I  will  hear  it,"  said  the  young  man, 
petulantly. 

"  No,  you  must  hear  it  to-night  —  Listen  !  " 

And  then  Adrian  heard  this  faithful  friend  repeat, 
with  singular  truth  to  style  and  language,  a  little  com 
posed  life-history,  which  years  before  he  had  written  and 
cast  forth  upon  human  minds  as  bread  is  cast  upon  the 
waters.  In  writing  this  life-history,  he  had  come  into 
a  most  vivid  perception  of  the  power  of  evil  entice 
ments  over  minds  of  a  certain  temperament,  and  had, 
with  a  wonderful  truth  to  nature,  drawn  character,  in 
cident,  action,  and  consequence,  in  their  relation  and 
progression.  So  startling  and  life-like  were  the  scenes 
presented,  and  so  painful  the  final  result,  that,  when  the 
last  sentence  fell  from  the  monitor's  lips,  his  young  friend 
turned  on  him  a  pallid  face.  There  was  a  pause,  and 
silence,  for  some  moments. 

"  Come  !  "  said  the  friend,  gently. 

"  Saved  !     Saved  !  "     Almost  sobbed  the  now  sub- 


THE    POET'S  LESSON.  183 

dued,  repentant  boy,  as  he  grasped  the  arm  of  his  com 
panion, 

Adrian  awoke  !  The  wintry  wind  still  moaned  and 
wailed  without,  but  it  had  no  power  to  sadden  the  poet's 
heart ;  for  he  heard  music  in  its  tones.  This  dream  was 
to  him  a  revelation  of  the  truth.  He  knew  that  in  his 
work  were  good  seeds ;  and  now  he  felt  assured  that  if 
good  seeds  were  scattered  upon  human  hearts,  some  of 
them  must  fall  upon  good  ground,  and  bring  forth  fruit 
in  the  harvest  time. 

"  To  inspire  the  heart  with  noble  and  virtuous  im 
pulses  ;  to  send  rays  of  comfort  into  souls  darkened  by 
sorrow  ;  to  help  the  weak  ;  give  sight  to  the  blind  wan 
derer  in  the  mazes  of  error,  and  to  hold  back  the  steps 
from  sin  —  are  not  these  great  deeds  ?  "  , 

And  Adrian's  heart  began  to  swell  with  joy  as  he 
talked  thus  with  himself;  for  a  deeper  insight  had  been 
given,  and  a  clearer  perception  of  truth  vouchsafed. 

Poet,  novelist,  preacher !  The  lesson  is  yours. 
Weary  not  over  your  tasks  ;  faint  not  under  your  bur 
dens  ;  permit  no  shadows  from  the  wing  of  doubt  to 
dim  the  clear  eye  of  faith.  But  work  on  in  your  high 
calling,  sending  abroad  on  every  passing  breeze  the 
winged  germs  that  shall  fall  upon  good  ground  in 
thronged  cities,  distant  hamlets,  and  solitary  homes. 
Be  diligent  and  faithful,  and  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 


184  THE  POET'S  LESSON. 

will  make  your  words  fruitful.  They  shall  go  forth  in 
light,  in  comfort,  in  strength,  in  blessing  ;  and  thousands 
upon  thousands  will  thank  God  that  you  have  lived  and 
spoken.  You  will  never  know  a  hundredth  part  of  the 
good  you  have  done ;  but  all  will  be  written  in  the  re 
cords  of  eternity. 


UP   HIGHER. 


185 


XIX. 

UP  HIGHER. 

OWN  again  !  "    I  heard  remarked,  in  a 
half  pitying,  half  complaining  way. 
"  Martin  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he's  tripped  again." 
"  So  I  heard  this  morning.'' 
"  Tripped,    and    gone   down   with   a 
heavy  fall ;  so  heavy  that  I  doubt  if  he 
recover  himself  again." 
"  I'm  sorry  for  Martin,"   said  the  other.     "  He  has 
always  impressed  me  as  a  well-meaning  man." 

"  Yes,   well-meaning  enough ;    but  something  more 
than  well-meaning  is  required  for  success  in  this  world.'* 
"  A  spice  of  cunning  and  shrewdness,  not  to  speak  of 
roguery." 

"  Shrewdness  is  required,  and  forethought,  and  a  num 
ber  of  other  qualities  not  possessed,  I  think,  in  a  high 
degree  by  Martin.  As  to  the  cunning  and  roguery, 


188  UP    HIGHER. 

they  may  succeed  for  a  time,  but  they  always  outwit 
themselves  in  the  end." 

"  Poor  fellow !  Be  the  cause  what  it  may,  I  pity 
him.  He's  tried  hard  enough  to  keep  up.  No  man 
could  have  been  more  faithful  to  business,  so  far  as  the 
devotion  of  his  time  and  his  active  attention  were  con 
cerned.  He  deserved  a  better  fate/ 

"  How  will  his  affairs  settle  ?  " 

"  Not  particularly  well,  I  hear." 

"  Does  he  show  a  fair  hand  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes."    The  answer  was  without  hesitation. 

"  I  might  have  known  that  from  what  I  know  of  the 
man." 

"  I  don't  believe  Martin  would  hold  any  thing  back. 
He  has  always  impressed  me  as  a  man  who  would  pay 
to  the  uttermost  farthing.  Poor  fellow  !  I'm  sorry  the 
fortunes  of  war  are  against  him,  and  that  he  has  gone 
down  in  the  heat  of  battle,  un victorious." 

"  Yes,  gone  down,  gone  down,  unvictorious,"  was  re 
sponded,  in  a  tone  of  pity. 

It  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  of  Martin's  failure 
in  business,  and  I  was  pained  to  hear  of  his  misfortune. 
I  knew  him  very  well,  and  held  him,  as  a  friend,  in 
high  personal  regard.  The  testimony  which  had  been 
borne  in  favor  of  his  integrity  was  in  agreement  with 
mv  own  estimate  of  his  character. 


UP   HIGHER.  187 

Intelligence  of  this  failure  soon  spread  through  all  the 
business  circles  in  which  Martin  was  known,  and  for 
two  or  three  days  almost  every  other  person  you  met 
had  something  to  say  about  it.  The  ordinary  way  of 
referring  to  the  subject  was  in  the  words,  "  Poor  Mar 
tin,  I  hear,  has  gone  down  again."  And  not  a  few  re 
sponded,  "  He's  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill  this 
time."  Some  pitied ;  some  blamed ;  and  some  spoke 
harshly  and  angrily  —  the  latter  were  of  those  who  had 
lost  by  the  failure.  I  felt  grieved  for  Martin.  It  was 
a  sad  ordeal  for  a  man  of  right  feelings  to  pass  through. 

I  did  not  meet  him,  except  casually  in  the  street,  for 
some  time  after  his  failure.  But  passing  his  store  one 
day,  and  seeing  it  closed,  as  a  sign  that  he  had  given  up 
business,  I  felt  that,  as  one  who  had  known  him  with 
some  personal  intimacy,  I  should  not  hold  myself  aloof 
in  this  his  day  of  trouble.  So  I  called  at  his  house  one 
evening.  When  I  grasped  his  hand  and  looked  into 
his  face,  I  saw  that  he  had  not  come  through  this  trial 
without  great  suffering.  He  had  the  appearance  of  a 
man  who  had  come  recently  from  a  bed  of  sickness. 

"  How  are  you,  my  friend  ?  "  I  asked,  as  we  sat 
down  together. 

"  As  well  as  could  be  hoped  for,"  he  replied,  a  feeble 
smile  touching  his  lips  with  a  ray  of  light. 

"  Cast  down,  but  not  forsaken." 


188  UP   HIGHER. 

"  Not  forsaken,  I  trust,"  he  answered,  in  a  firmer 
voice. 

"  Tliis  is  one  of  the  troubles  that  is  hard  to  bear," 
said  I. 

"  Yes ;  but,  as  in  all  other  troubles,  our  strength  is  as 
our  day." 

"  I  am  pleased  to  hear  you  say  that,"  I  remarked. 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  indeed,  if  I  could  not  say  it,"  he 
answered,  still  gaining  steadiness  of  manner.  "  We 
look  forward  to  great  trials  with  a  shuddering  sense  of 
fear,  because  we  are  conscious  only  of  the  feeble  power 
of  endurance  that  may  be  called  our  own.  But  when 
the  trial  comes,  and  we  go  down  amidst  the  rushing  wa 
ters,  in  fear  and  shuddering  lest  they  overwhelm  us,  we 
find  an  arm  to  lean  upon  that  is  unseen  but  full  of 
strength." 

44  And  so  your  strength  has  been  as  your  day  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes ;  or  I  should  have  perished  among  the  floods. 
That  I  sit  here,  and  talk  with  you  as  a  man  to  his  friend, 
clothed  and  in  my  right  mind,  makes  the  fact  evident." 

"  Could  you  not  have  prevented  this  disaster  ?  "  I 
asked,  during  our  conversation. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  with  such  confidence  in  his  voice 
that  I  said,  with  some  earnestness, 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  use  the  means  ?  " 

"  Simply  because  I  could  not  satisfy  myself  that  they 


UP   HIGHER.  189 

were  the  right  means.  You  shall  hear  and  judge  for 
yourself. 

"  Two  months  ago  one  of  my  customers,  to  whom  I 
had  sold  rather  more  freely  than  my  judgment  after 
wards  approved,  failed.  It  was  only  a  few  days  before 
the  notes  which  I  had  received  in  payment  came  due. 
These  notes  had  been  discounted,  and  I  had,  of  course, 
to  take  care  of  them.  In  doing  this  the  means  held  in 
reserve  for  maturing  payments  were  exhausted  for  the 
time,  and  I  was  thrown  upon  the  street  as  a  borrower, 
on  most  disadvantageous  terms.  Another  loss,  follow 
ing  quickly  on  this  one,  alarmed  and  bewildered  me. 
Twice  before  had  I  failed  in  business,  and  now  this 
dreaded  ordeal,  more  painful  than  death  in  my  imagina 
tion,  looked  me  in  the  face  again,  and  I  grew  faint  with 
heart-sickness.  I  looked  eagerly  this  way  and  that. 
Caught  at  one  expedient  and  another  ;  dropping  each  in 
turn  as  of  little  promise,  or  as  indefensible  on  the  score 
of  honest  dealing. 

"  While  sitting  at  my  desk  one  day,  searching  about 
in  my  thought  for  a  way  of  escape  from  the  difficulties 
that  environed  me  like  a  steadily  approaching  wall  of 
fire,  a  real  estate  agent  with  whom  1  was  well  acquaint 
ed,  came  in,  and  said  to  me,  in  a  confidential  way, 

"  *  I  know  where  some  money  is  to  be  gained,  Mr, 
Martin.' 


190  UP    HIGHER. 

"  '  Money  is  a  very  desirable  thing,'  I  answered. 

"  '  And  not  always  to  be  picked  up  in  the  street,' 
said  he. 

"  4  Not  so  far  as  my  experience  is  concerned.' 

"  '  Or  mine  either.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,'  he  went 
on,  4 1  know  where  some  money  is  to  be  made.  Would 
you  like  to  join  me  in  making  it  ? '  I  answered  yes, 
without  hesitation ;  for,  of  all  things,  money  was  what 
I  then  most  wanted  ;  and  asked  for  a  statement  of  the 
ways  and  means  required. 

"  l  In  the  first  place,'  said  he,  '  can  you  raise  three  or 
four  thousand  dollars  within  a  week  ?  ' 

"  I  said  yes,  if  the  amount  was  only  needed  tempora 
rily;  if  for  permanent  investment,  no. 

"  '  It  will  only  be  needed  temporarily,'  he  answered, 
'  as  bait  for  taking  a  big  fish.'  And  he  smiled  in  a  way 
that  did  not  strike  me  as  pleasant. 

" '  Explain  yourself  fully,'  I  now  said,  and  he  went 
on. 

"  '  There  is  a  piece  of  wild  land  in  the  interior  of  this 
State,  which  has  been  owned  for  years  by  two  elderly 
maiden  sisters,  who,  long  ago,  were  sick  of  paying  taxes 
on  property  that  yielded  no  income.  The  tract  includes 
nearly  two  thousand  acres,  and  was  bought  originally  at 
one  dollar  and  a  half  an  acre.  It  can  be  had  to-day  for 
three  dollars  an  acre.  I  know  the  parties  who  own  it, 


UP   HIGHER.  191 

and  they  are  now,  as  they  have  been  for  years,  anxious 
to  turn  this  property  into  money,  which  can  be  invested 
and  insure  an  annual  interest.  They  are  advancing  in 
life,  and  prefer  a  present  certainty  to  large  hopes  in  the 
future.  I  have  known  of  the  existence  of  this  property 
for  some  time,  and  have  had  itching  fingers  toward  it, 
because  I  felt  satisfied  from  its  location  that  it  must  con 
tain  valuable  mineral  desposits  —  coal  or  iron.  Per 
haps  both.  Last  week  I  ran  up  into  the  region  where 
it  was  situated,  and  getting  a  skilled  man  in  the  neigh 
borhood,  spent  two  days  in  a  careful  examination  of  the 
entire  tract.  The  result  more  than  confirmed  my  ex 
pectation.  Coal  crops  out  in  many  places,  specimens  of 
which  I  brought  away.  It  proves,  on  testing,  to  be  of 
superior  quality.  Moreover,  a  railroad  is  now  in  the 
course  of  construction,  which  w^ill  pass  within  three 
miles  of  the  land.  Why,  Mr.  Martin,  this  whole  tract 
could  be  sold  for  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  an  hour, 
if  its  value  was  known  in  the  market  as  I  know  it. 
Now,  what  I  require  to  gain  possession  is  the  money. 
But  unfortunately  I  am  poor.  I  know  twenty  men  who 
would  clutch  at  the  opportunity  of  joining  me  in  the 
purchase,  and  put  down  the  cash  at  a  word ;  but  I'm 
afraid  to  trust  them  with  my  secret.  And  this  is  why  I 
come  to  you.  If  you  can  furnish  the  means  required, 
one  half  of  the  land  is  yours.  I  have  already  seen  the 


192  UP   HIGHER. 

old  ladies,  and  they  are  ready  to  sell  the  property  for 
six  thousand  dollars  ;  one  half  cash,  and  the  balance  in 
six  or  twelve  months'  payments.  The  thing  must  be 
done  quickly,  or  they  may  get  an  inkling  of  the  truth. 
What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Martin  ?  You  can  sell  out  your 
interest  in  a  week  for  fifty  thousand  dollars  !  ' 

"  Now  this  man  was  not  a  scheming  visionary,  who 
got  rich  on  paper  twenty  times  a  year,  but  a  cool, 
shrewd  person,  who  understood  entirely  what  he  was 
about.  If  he  had  spent  two  days  on  the  property  re 
ferred  to,  in  company  with  an  expert,  the  report  he 
made  as  to  coal  desposits  might  be  fully  relied  upon. 
Here,  then,  was  a  way  of  escape  made  plain  to  me.  I 
had  but  to  raise  the  sum  of  three  thousand  dollars, 
which  my  credit  would  enable  me  to  do,  and  hold  my 
portion  of  this  land  until  we  could  make  its  value 
known.  I  was  on  the  point  of  thanking  him  for  the  of 
fer  of  a  share  in  so  promising  an  enterprise,  and  saying 
that  I  would  go  in  with  him  of  course,  when  this  ques 
tion  came  into  my  mind :  '  Is  it  right  to  take  advantage 
of  the  ignorance  of  these  old  ladies,  and  get  possession 
of  their  property  at  a  mere  tithe  of  its  real  worth  ?  ' 
The  question  disturbed  me  considerably,  and  I  endeav 
ored  to  put  it  out  of  my  mind.  But  it  kept  repeating 
itself,  and  growing  more  and  more  intrusive  every  mo 
ment. 


UP   HIGHER.  193 

"  '  What  do  you  say  ?  '  asked  the  man,  breaking  in 
upon  my  long,  hesitating  silence. 

"  '  In  one  hour  I  will  give  you  an  answer,'  said  I. 

"  This  would  afford  me  time  to  look  at  the  subject  on 
all  sides.  The  temptation,  under  the  dreadful  pressure 
of  my  circumstances,  was  very  great.  In  either  of  the 
previous  ordeals  through  which  I  passed  I  would  have 
yielded  with  scarcely  a  struggle.  But  I  could  not  see, 
now,  that  a  way  of  escape  like  this  was  defensible  in 
any  clear  aspect  of  Christian  morality.  It  was  taking 
advantage  of  my  better  information  to  obtain  valuable 
property  for  a  most  trifling  consideration.  Would  this 
be  in  harmony  with  the  Golden  Rule  ?  Would  there 
be  justice  and  judgment  in  the  act  ?  Was  it  a  deed 
that  any  good  conscience  could  bear  onward  to  the  clos 
ing  of  life,  and  not  feel  its  pressure  as  a  burden  grow 
ing  heavier  and  heavier  ?  As  I  dwelt  on  the  subject 
my  mind  grew  excited  and  eager.  On  the  one  hand 
was  inevitable  ruin  —  my  affairs  were  so  near  a  crisis 
that  hope  had  given  way  ;  on  the  other,  a  fortune  as 
large  as  I  had  ever  asked  for  lay  within  my  reach,  and 
I  had  only  to  put  forth  my  hand  and  take  it  —  only  to 
put  forth  my  hand  and  save  myself  from  disaster  and 
iny  creditors  from  loss.  Then  came  the  additional  argu 
ment  that  my  refusal  to  accept  the  advantage  would  not 
prevent  the  old  ladies  from  losing  this  property.  Some 


194  UP   HIGHER. 

other  person  would  be  found  to  take  my  place  in  fur 
nishing  the  cash  required,  and  so  the  land  would  pass  to 
new  owners.  But  this  did  not  satisfy  me.  It  was  the 
old  false  argument  in  favor  of  appropriating  another's 
goods  because  they  were  doomed  to  be  stolen  by  some 
body. 

"  In  an  hour  my  tempter  returned. 

"  '  What's  the  word,  Mr.  Martin  ?  '  he  asked,  looking 
at  me  so  confidently  that  I  saw  he  was  in  no  doubt 
about  my  acceptance  of  his  proposal.  I  had  settled  the 
question,  after  a  severe  struggle,  and  was  prepared  to 
answer  without  hesitation. 

"  4  The  thing  seems  promising  enough,'  said  I ;  4  but 
I  have  concluded  against  becoming  a  party  in  the  trans 
action.' 

"  '  Why  not  ?  '  he  asked,  looking  disappointed. 

"  4  Plainly,'  was  my  answer,  4  because  it  hasn't  a  fair 
look.  Advantage  will  be  taken  of  another's  ignorance.' 

"  The  man's  face  betrayed  an  instant  angry  move 
ment  of  his  feelings,  and  he  muttered  something  in  an 
undertone,  in  which  my  ears  seemed  to  detect  the  words, 
'  Stupid  fool  I  ' 

"  4  And  you  are  really  in  earnest  ?  '  said  he,  scarcely 
seeking  to  hide  a  look  of  contempt  that  was  rising  to  his 
face. 

"  '  I  am,'  was  my  firm  answer. 


UP    HIGHER.  195 

4 

"  '  Good-morning  !  ' 

"  He  threw  the  words  at  me  with  an  impatient  im- 

% 

pulse,  and  left  me  on  the  instant." 

"  Did  he  find  a  less  scrupulous  individual  to  join 
him  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  and  what  is  more,  the  purchase  of  the  land 
was  made,  and  it  has  since  been  sold  to  a  company  for 
some  fabulous  sum  —  two  or  three  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  I  believe." 

"  Half  of  which  would  have  been  yours  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  without  change  of  tone  or  man 
ner. 

"  And  instead  of  being  away  down  in  this  low,  dim 
valley,  you  would  now  be  on  the  sunny  heights  of  pros 
perity  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  little  while  without  answering. 

"  Have  you,  at  any  time,  regretted  that  decision  ?  "  I 
asked. 

"  Not  for  a  single  instant,"  he  replied.  "  After  the 
temptation  was  over,  and  my  mind  was  able  to  rise  into 
a  clearer  region,  I  saw  the  transaction  in  such  a  hid 
eous  aspect  that  I  almost  shuddered  in  thinking  of  mv 
escape.  Ah  !  Sir,  there  are  greater  evils  than  poverty, 
and  higher  good  than  riches.  With  that  sin  upon  my 
conscience  I  would  have  gone  down  into  regions  of 
doubt  and  darkness,  and  mayhap  lost  my  way,  never  to 


196  UP   HIGHEK. 

find  it  again.  It  is  better,  far  better,  I  think,  to  walk 
in  the  right  way,  even  if  it  be  with  naked  feet,  than  to 
tread  on  soft  velvet  in  passing  along  the  road  that  leads 
to  destruction  at  last." 

"  Better  ?  Yes,  a  thousand  times  better  !  "  said  I 
with  ardor.  "  This  fall,  then  —  this  '  going  down  ' 
again,  as  the  common  saying  is  —  can  not,  in  one  sense, 
be  called  a  misfortune,  but  a  trial  in  which  there  might 
come  a  death  of  something  evil  and  selfish  in  your  soul, 
and  thence  a  new  birth  of  higher  and  more  heavenly 
principles.  You  were  brought  into  a  strong  temptation, 
in  which  good  gained  a  victory  over  evil ;  and  you  are 
a  truer  man  for  the  fierce  struggle  and  conquest." 

"  I  know  not  how  that  may  be,"  he  answered.  "  I 
only  know  that  I  have  a  clear  conscience  ;  that  in  the 
fire  through  which  I  have  been  required  to  pass  I  have 
not  let  truth  or  justice  go  to  the  flames." 

How  think  you,  reader  ?  Had  that  man  gone  down 
lower  or  up  higher  ?  What  would  you  have  done  un 
der  circumstances  of  like  trial  ?  Would  you  have 
clutched  eagerly  at  the  golden  opportunity  which  came 
with  such  tempting  smiles  ;  or,  like  Martin,  risked  the 
fire  ?  If  you  are  a  man  looking  heavenward  —  and 
doubtless  this  is  so  —  let  the  question  come  home  ;  it 
may  give  you  a  new  consciousness  of  your  own  state. 
In  the  mirror  of  his  scrupulous  action  you  may  see  a  re 
flection  of  yourself. 


WAS  IT  A  MISFORTUNE? 


197 


XX. 


WAS  IT  A  MISFORTUNE. 

MPOSSIBLE  !  "  exclaimed  Morris  Hes- 
ton,  starting  up  from  his  desk.  "  Impos 
sible  ! "  he  repeated,  his  face  growing 
very  pale. 

"  It  is  too  true,"  was  the  answer 
made  by  a  gentleman,  who  had  come 
hurriedly  into  the  store  of  Mr.  Heston. 
"  I  have  the  news  from  a  reliable  source." 

"  Failed !  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  failed  badly.  It  is  alleged  that  not  ten 
cents  in  the  dollar  can  possibly  be  realized.  I  hope  he 
doesn't  owe  you  much." 

"  Not  a  great  deal,"  was  answered,  evasively,  though 
with  ill-concealed  anxiety  ;  "  yet  enough  to  sweep  away 
nearly  all  my  profits  on  the  year's  business,  should  the 
loss  be  total.  Is  he  on  your  books  ?  " 


198  WAS   IT   A   MISFORTUNE? 

«  Yes." 

"  To  a  large  amount  ?  " 

"  Three  thousand  dollars." 

"  I  thought  him  sound  to  the  core.  The  reports  in 
regard  to  his  standing  have  always  been  A  No.  1." 

"  He  has  been  engaged,  it  is  said,  in  some  land  spec 
ulations,  which  have  turned  out  disastrously.  The  old 
story  of  the  dog  and  the  shadow.  Well,  we  must  ex 
pect  such  things,  and  meet  them  with  as  much  philoso 
phy  as  can  be  summoned  to  our  aid.  Good  morn- 
ing." 

And  the  man  went  out  as  hurriedly  as  he  had  come 
in.  As  he  left  the  store,  Mr.Heston  turned,  with  a  dis 
turbed  manner,  to  his  ledger,  and  threw  over  the  leaves 
nervously.  Pausing  at  an  account,  he  footed  it  up  rap 
idly.  The  pencilled  figures  showed  the  sum  of  four 
thousand  eight  hundred  and  sixty-one  dollars.  There 
was  a  credit  by  bills  receivable  of  four  thousand  dollars  ; 
three  thousand  five  hundred  of  which  had  been  dis 
counted,  and  would  mature  in  less  than  a  month. 

Morris  Heston  was  a  young  man,  who  had  been  in 
business  only  about  two  years.  The  capital  on  which 
he  commenced,  was  less  than  two  thousand  dollars  ;  and 
the  whole  of  this  he  had  saved  from  his  salary.  He 
was  active,  industrious  and  intelligent,  and  on  the  road, 
many  predicted,  to  fortune.  But  in  one  thing  he  was 


WAS  IT   A   MISFORTUNE?  199 

indiscreet ;  and  that  was,  in  selling  too  largely  to  a 
single  customer.  No  wonder  that  he  started  and 
turned  pale  on  hearing  bad  news  from  this  customer  ; 
for  loss  here  was  equivalent  to  ruin.  Already,  the  re 
lation  between  receipts  and  payments  were  so  close, 
that  any  serious  deficiency  in  the  one,  or  increase  in  the 
other,  would  prove  a  source  of  embarrassment ;  and  to 
have  between  three  and  four  thousand  dollars  of  dis 
counted  bills  come  back  upon  him  in  four  weeks,  would 
certainly  cause  him  to  stop  payment. 

We  need  not  picture  the  troubled  events  that  followed, 
too  surely,  the  confirmed  intelligence  of  this  failure  of  a 
distant  customer.  Heston  was  too  weak  to  bear  th^ 
pressure  that  came  upon  him,  and  so  was  forced  to  giva 
way.  A  few  of  his  creditors,  who  had  faith  in  his  in 
tegrity  and  ability,  would  cheerfully  have  reduced  their 
claims,  and  given  him  ample  time  on  the  balance  ;  but 
the  majority,  who  had  no  personal  interest  in  him,  and 
looked  only  to  themselves,  acted  upon  the  common  adage 
current  in  such  cases,  that  the  "  first  loss  is  the  best 
loss,"  and  swept  everything,  leaving  the  unhappy,  mor 
tified  and  dispirited  young  man  without  a  dollar  on 
which  to  begin  the  world  again  —  nay,  even  worse  than 
this,  leaving  him  several  thousand  dollars  in  debt ;  for, 
in  throwing  his  stock  into  auction,  and  forcing  collec 
tions,  serious  losses  were  inevitable. 


200  WAS   IT   A   MISFORTUNE? 

Troubles  rarely  come  alone.  Another,  and  to  our 
young  friend,  a  sadder  disaster  followed.  He  was 
under  engagement  of  marriage,  and  the  time  of  its  cel 
ebration  had  been  fixed.  From  the  ^noment  rumor 
rilled  the  air  with  reports  of  his  heavy  losses  and  dan 
ger  of  failure  he  thought  he  could  perceive  a  change  in 
the  manner  of  his  betrothed.  He  tried  to  think  this 
only  imagination  ;  but  the  change  seemed  daily  to  grow 
more  and  more  apparent.  At  last  it  became  necessary 
for  him  to  tell  her  of  his  misfortune,  and  the  blight 
which  had  come  over  his  worldly  prospects.  He  still 
had  faith  in  her;  still  tried  to  deceive  himself  notwith 
standing  the  recent  change  in  her  manner. 

She  listened  with  a  coldness  of  exterior  that  chilled 
him  to  the  heart ;  then  gave  a  few  tears ;  and  then  sat 
in  irresponsive  silence. 

Stung  by  this  apparent  want  of  sympathy,  and  be 
wildered  by  the  conviction  that  a  new  and  heavier  mis 
fortune  was  about  to  cloud  the  sky  of  his  life,  the  young 
man  started  up,  and  standing  before  the  embarrassed  girl, 
said,  with  much  agitation  of  tone  and  manner  — 

"  Agnes  !  how  am  I  to  understand  this  ?  Are  you, 
too,  only  a  summer  friend  ?  " 

Scarcely  had  the  words  passed  from  his  lips,  ere  she 
started  to  her  feet,  and  glided  without  a  word  of  answer 
from  the  room. 


WAS    IT    A    MISFORTUNE  ?  201 

For  the  space  of  nearly  ten  minutes,  Heston  walked 
the  floor  of  the  apartment  in  which  he  had  been  left 
alone,  every  moment  expecting  the  return  of  his  be 
trothed,  but  she  came  not  back.  At  the  end  of  this  pe 
riod  he  left  the  house,  in  so  wretched  a  state  of  mind, 
that,  for  a  brief  season,  he  meditated  self-destruction. 
But  wiser  thoughts  restored  him  to  better  feelings. 

Once  more  he  called  to  see  the  yet  enthroned  idol  of 
his  affections  ;  but  she  refused  to  meet  him,  and  the  idol 
was  cast  down  and  broken  into  fragments  at  his  feet. 
It  was  but  gilded  clay,  and  not  fine  gold,  as  he  had  vain 
ly  believed. 

The  effect  of  this  double  misfortune  was  altogether 
paralyzing.  Heston  fell  into  a  state  of  gloomy  inaction. 
Friends  urged  him  to  look  the  world  bravely  in  the  face 
once  more,  and  begin  again,  with  a  stout  heart,  the  bat 
tle  of  life.  But  he  answered  — 

"No  —  I  have  been  mocked  once.  Let  that  suffice. 
I  will  not  run  the  risk  of  another  such  disaster. 

"  She  is  unworthy  of  a  thought,"  said  one,  alluding 
to  the  maiden  who  had  proved  so  meanly  false  to  her 
vows  ;  "  and  a  thousand  times  unworthy  of  regret  by  so 
true  a  heart  as  yours." 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  all  that,"  was  answered,  in  a  tone 
of  bitterness,  "  but  the  heart  that  once  loves,  loves  on 
9* 


202  WAS    IT    A    MISFORTUNE? 

forever  —  loves,  even  though  the  object  of  affection  be 
proved  unworthy." 

u  Mere  poet's  talk  !  "  said  the  friend.  "  True  love  is 
only  based  on  the  perception  of  qualities.  You  never 
truly  loved  this  girl ;  and  time  will  prove  my  words. 
Let  her  image  pass  from  your  thoughts  like  breath  from 
the  face  of  a  mirror.  Fling  her  memory  to  the  winds." 

Little  effect  had  this  upon  the  mind  of  Heston.  He 
held  himself  aloof  from  friends,  and  remained  for  nearly 
twelve  mouths  a  kind  of  social  recluse,  brooding  over 
the  misfortunes  which  had  so  early  in  life  made  his  sky 
sunless.  As  a  clerk  on  a  moderate  salary,  he  went 
through  his  monotonous  round  of  duties,  all  interest  in 
the  future  seeming  to  have  died  out  of  his  heart. 

At  the  end  of  a  year  there  was  a  gay  wedding  in  the 
city  ;  gay  and  imposing  enough  to  create  a  flutter  in 
certain  circles.  A  young  merchant,  who  had  started 
in  business  at  the  same  time  with  Heston,  and  being 
more  successful,  had  tried  another  venture  in  life,  even 
the  doubtful  one  of  Leading  to  the  altar  a  maiden  who 
had  been  false  to  her  first  lover,  turning  heartlessly  from 
him  when  the  sunshine  left  his  path. 

This  had  the  effect  to  stir  into  new  life  the  almost 
dormant  energies  of  our  young  friend.  From  that  time 
he  walked  abroad  with  a  firmer  tread,  and  a  counte 
nance  more  elevated.  If  his  old  light-heartedness  did 


WAS    IT    A    MISFORTUNE  ?  203 

not  return,  he  showed  a  cheerful  aspect,  and  something 
like  a  genial  side  to  his  character.  The  true  man  in 
him  was  moving  with  a  new  vitality,  and  throwing  off 
the  dead  husks  of  feeling  which  closed  around  him  close 
ly  as  cerements. 

Ere  another  year  had  gone  by,  an  offer  to  commence 
business  again  —  or  rather,  to  become  a  partner  in  an 
old  established  house  —  was  accepted,  and  he  started  in 
the  world  once  more,  moving  with  a  steadier  step,  and 
with  a  surer  prospect.  And  he  loved  again  —  loved  as 
deeply,  and  far  more  wisely  —  loved  one,  whose  light 
of  love  for  him  was  an  undying  flame,  that  no  waters 
of  misfortune  could  ever  quench. 

Morris  Heston  was  all  right  with  the  world  again ; 
and  wiser  and  happier  for  the  brief  but  desolating  storm 
which  had  so  sadly  marred  the  beautiful  garden  of  his 
young  life.  Prosperity  crowned  his  business  efforts, 
and  love  made  his  home  a  Paradise. 

Now  and  then  he  met  on  the  street,  or  in  social  par 
ties,  her  who  had  played  him  so  falsely  in  his  darker 
hours  ;  never  without  an  almost  audibly  breathed  utter 
ance  of  thanks  for  the  misfortune  which  had  proved  her 
quality.  She  was  growing  yearly  into  a  bold,  flaunting, 
heartless  woman  of  the  world  ;  her  once  beautiful  face 
changing  steadily,  until,  to  eyes  unveiled  by  sensuality,  it 
wore  a  most  repellant  aspect.  To  her  husband's  side, 


20-4  WAS   IT   A    MISFORTUNE  ? 

she  was  rarely  seen  to  move,  on  social  occasions,  with 
an  unconscious  instinct,  as  if  it  was  always  pleasant  to 
be  near  him  ;  but  plainly  preferred  any  man's  company 
to  his. 

"  Thank  God  for  misfortune  !  "  said  Heston,  almost 
speaking  aloud,  on  one  occasion,  as  he  saw  her  turn 
from  her  husband  with  scarcely  concealed  disgust,  and 
crown  another  man  with  a  wreath  of  smiles.  "  To  me 
it  came  a  blessing  in  disguise." 

It  was  scarcely  a  month  later,  when  the  husband  of 
this  weak,  vain,  unprincipled  woman,  returned  from 
his  business  one  evening  to  find  his  home\ desolate,  his 
love  hopelessly  wrecked,  and  his  baby  worse  than  moth 
erless.  His  wife  had  abandoned  all  her  sacred  duties, 
and  throwing  love,  honor,  virtue,  to  the  mocking  winds, 
cast  her  Jot  with  that  of  a  false  wretch  who  lured  her 
from  the  true  path,  only  to  fling  her  aside  after  a  brief 
season  as  a  worthless  thing. 

"  Thank  God  for  misfortune !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Hes 
ton,  in  the  silence  of  his  swelling  heart,  when  intelli 
gence  of  this  sad  event  reached  his  ears.  It  came  to 
him,  first  from  the  lips  of  his  own  true  wife,  who  had 
grown  daily  dearer  to  him  since  the  blessed  hour  when 
she  had  given  hand  and  heart  together.  "  Misfortune  ? 
Oh,  no!"  he  said.  "It  was  not  misfortune — but 
blessing  !  The  sun  was  shining  still  in  the  sky  ;  only  a 
few  clouds  had  hid  from  me  his  loving  face." 


WAS   IT   A   MISFORTUNE?  205 

Almost  tearfully  did  Morris  Heston  gather  his  little 
children  into  his  arms  that  evening,  looking  from  them 
to  their  mother  with  such  loving  glances,  that  hall-won 
dering,  and  half-joyful,  the  happy  spouse  felt  a  new  de 
light  swelling  in  her  heart,  that  gave  a  new  beauty  to 
her  pure  countenance. 

"  I  bless  God,  dear  Mary  !  "  said  the  young  man,  as 
she  came  to  his  side,  drawn  by  the  magnetism  of  his 
love,  "  that  you  are  my  wife  !  My  true,  loving,  faith 
ful  wife,  and  the  mother  of  my  precious  babes." 

Very  softly  that  happy  wife  and  mother  laid  her  lips 
upon  the  forehead  of  her  husband,  the  touch  thrilling 
him  to  the  inmost  of  his  spirit. 

Was  it  misfortune  that  clouded  our  young  friend's 
life  ?  No  —  no.  Not  misfortune,  in  the  darker  sense  — 
the  seeming  evil  was  only  a  blessing  disguised.  And 
so,  to  the  right-thinking,  the  right-feeling,  the  true- 
hearted,  will  all  the  darker  dispensations  of  life  prove 
themselves  blessings.  Let  us  be  patient,  hopeful,  trust 
ing,  when  the  sky  is  shadowed,  nor  tremble  at  the 
storm  that  seems  desolating  the  earth.  The  cloudy  tem 
pest  is  only  a  transient  condition  of  nature  ;  there  is 
above  all,  the  perpetual  sunshine. 

To  the  right-minded  there  are  no  misfortunes. 


206 


THE    DEACON'S   DREAM. 


XXI. 

THE   DEACON'S  DREAM. 

HERE  had  always  been  a  pious  vein 
about  Deacon  Elwood.  It  showed 
itself  in  him  when  a  mere  boy.  He 
would  play  at  prayer  meeting,  if  he 
could  get  the  little  ones  to  join  him, 
while  other  lads  amused  themselves 
with  ball  or  some  such  worldly  pas 
time.  Not  that  he  was  less  selfish, 
or  more  self-denying  than  his  compan 
ions.  But  his  fancy  led  him  in  this  direction,  or,  per 
haps,  something  more  deeply  ingrained.  It  might  have 
been  that  this  pious  vein  of  which  we  have  spoken  — 
not  in  any  lightness,  but  to  indicate  a  peculiarity  —  was 
an  intimation  of  the  after  life-use  for  which,  in  the 
great  complex  of  uses,  he  was  best  fitted  by  nature. 
Be  this  as  it  may,  young  Elwood  always  showed  a 


207 


leaning  toward  the  church,  and,  at  an  early  age,  became 
a  member.  And  it  must  be  said,  on  his  behalf,  that,  as 
a  young  man,  he  maintained  a  good  character.  No  one 
could  point  to  lapses  from  virtue  or  integrity,  nor  even 
to  the  follies  that  so  often  throw  a  shade  over  young 
men's  lives.  Fathers  pointed  him  out  to  their  sons  as 
an  example. 

There  was  a  time  when  El  wood  thought  seriousty  of 
becoming  a  minister ;  and  if  his  father,  a  money-loving 
and  money-making  man,  had  favored  the  inclination,  he 
would  have  been  a  preacher  instead  of  a  trader.  But 
old  Mr.  Elwood  had  rather  a  poor  opinion  of  the  pulpit 
—  viewed  from  a  worldly  point,  and  as  a  profession  — 
and  there  was  enough  of  the  inherited  love  of  money  in 
his  son  to  make  him  clear  sighted  as  to  his  father's  argu 
ment  on  the  subject.  So  his  first  love  was  abandoned 
for  a  second  and  more  ardent  love. 

Still  he  remained  a  church-loving  man,  uniting  him 
self  with  his  brethren  in  the  faith  at  an  early  period  in 
life,  and  standing  always  in  an  advanced  position.  He 
led  in  prayer-meetings  and  other  assemblages,  and 
took  an  active  interest  in  all  religious  matters.  While 
still  a  young  man,  he  was  chosen  to  fill  the  office  of  dea 
con.  It  was  a  day  of  pleasing  self-congratulation,  when 
news  of  the  appointment  reached  him.  He  felt  it  as  a 
compliment,  and  yet  not  an  undeserved  one.  His  am- 


208  THE  DEACON'S  DREAM. 

bition  had  looked  this  way,  and  it  was  gratified.  "  Dea 
con  El  wood."  It  had  a  pleasant  sound  in  his  ears, 
"  Deacon  Elwood."  How  often  it  was  repeated  in  his 
mind  for  months  after  the  honor  crowned  his  brows  — 
"  Deacon  Elwood."  How  many  times,  as  he  held  pen 
in  hand,  did  these  two  words  drop  down  upon  white  pa 
per,  and  lie  there  in  his  own  clear  chirography,  a  pleas 
ant  thing  to  look  upon. 

In  all  church  matters  the  deacon  was  formal,  pious, 
observant  and  active.  With  him  resided  a  controlling 
power  in  most  of  the  temporalities,  as  they  were  called. 
He  was  the  minister's  nearest  friend  and  adviser,  and 
that  individual  had  learned  the  propriety  of  humoring 
him,  where  no  principle  of  action  was  involved.  In 
time,  Deacon  Elwood  came  to  consider  himself  as  not  only 
a  pillar  in  the  church,  but  as  equal  to  a  dozen  ordinary 
pillars.  He  could  not  see  how  it  was  possible,  without 
his  active  care  and  watchfulness,  for  the  congregation 
to  be  held  together.  As  to  his  fitness  for  heaven,  that 
was  not  a  question  in  the  deacon's  mind.  It  had  been 
settled  long  ago.  If  he  was  not  a  fair  subject  for  heav 
en,  the  world  was  to  be  pitied.  If  he  didn't  pass  through 
the  pearly  gates  in  the  last  time,  who,  then,  would  be 
saved  ? 

But  we  must  come  to  the  deacon's  dream.  A  certain 
minister,  sojourning,  had  been  asked  to  occupy,  for  a 


THE  DEACON'S  DREAM.  209 

single  time,  the  pulpit  in  our  deacon's  church.  Now,  it 
matters  not  how  well  a  minister  may  preach,  we  are 
very  apt  to  grow  inattentive  to  his  positions  and  argu 
ments,  however  fairly  assumed  and  lucidly  presented,  if 
we  listen  to  him  Sabbath  after  Sabbath  for  a  long  time. 
His  words  do  not  come  to  us  with  the  same  clearness  of 
meaning  that  they  did  in  the  beginning,  when  a  certain 
newness  in  the  man  made  us  hang  more  earnestly  upon 
what  he  said.  The  peculiarities  of  style  that  pleased 
us  at  first,  and  even  quickened  our  interest,  have  come 
to  be  felt  as  tiresome  mannerisms.  We  take  his  in 
struction  as  wide  generalities,  but  rarely  understand 
them  in  any  direct  application  to  our  own  lives. 

This  had  come  to  be  very  much  the  case  with  our 
deacon's  minister  —  at  least  so  far  as  the  deacon  was 
concerned.  As  to  doctrine,  he  felt  himself  quite  as 
well  posted  as  the  minister ;  and  as  to  sermonizing, 
which  related  mainly  to  the  admonition  of  sinners,  and 
reproofs  of  believers  for  their  backslidings  and  neglect 
of  duties,  he  had  no  concern  in  them,  and  quite  as  often 
spent  the  church  hour  in  dreaming  over  his  business,  as 
in  meditating  points  of  theology. 

But  a  new  minister  was  to  fill  the  pulpit,  and  Dea 
con  Elwood  went  to  church  on  that  fair  Sabbath,  with 
ears  quickened  for  hearing.  The  sermon  was  not  whaf 
is  called  doctrinal,  but  practical,  and  went  a  little  deep- 


210  THE  DEACON'S  DREAM. 

er  down  into  a  consideration  of  the  life  of  professors 
than  is  usual.  Professors  being  generally  regarded  as 
on  the  safe  side,  our  ministers  give  their  most  serious  at 
tention  to  sinners,  and  try  to  get  them  over  on  to  solid 
ground.  On  this  occasion,  however,  the  saints  got  a 
pretty  thorough  consideration  of  their  case,  and  it  was 
not,  in  all  respects,  flattering  to  their  self-complacency. 
There  were  a  few  sentences  that  rather  disturbed  our 
good  deacon's  composure,  and  he  took  them  home  with 
him.  Let  us  consider  them  as  well.  The  minister  said  : 
"It  is  not  piety  that  saves  a  man ;  there  must  be 
charitity  as  well.  It  isn't  love  to  God  alone  that  opens 
heaven  ;  there  must  be  genuine  love  of  the  neighbor ; 
Sabbath  worship,  church  ordinances,  tithes,  mint  and 
cummin,  will  avail  nothing  to  the  soul's  salvation, 
if  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law  are  neglected. 
Nay,  they  will  be  rather  as  millstones  about  the 
neck,  to  sink  your  souls  to  perdition.  What  are 
these  weightier  matters  of  the  law  ?  They  are  jus 
tice  and  judgment,  not  external  forms  of  worship. 
They  belong  almost  entirely  to  your  lives  in  busi 
ness  and  among  men,  and  but  remotely,  so  to  speak, 
to  your  specifically  religious  lives.  And  it  is  by  your 
states  as  to  the  every  day  life,  rather  than  by  your 
states  as  to  the  Sunday  life,  that  you  will  be  judged  in 
the  last  time.  And  I  solemnly  warn  you,  as  God's 


THE  DEACON'S  DREAM.  211 

messenger,  to  see  to  it,  that  the  oil  of  true  neighborly 
love  be  in  your  lamps  and  vessels,  when  the  cry  is  heard, 
4  Behold  the  bridegroom  cometh  !  ' 

44  Let  your  thought,  my  dear  Christian  friends,  go 
forward  for  a  few  years  —  to  some  of  you  it  may  only 
be  a  few  days  —  to  that  time  when  the  eyes  of  these 
natural  and  perishing  bodies  shall  close  in  darkness,  and 
the  inner  eyes  of  the  spirit  shall  open  upon  the  world 
of  eternal  verities.  When  God's  angels  shall  come  to 
you,  and  looking  down  through  all  disguises,  explore 
you  as  to  the  quality  of  your  lives  —  as  to  your  love,  as 
well  as  your  faith.  What,  my  friend,"  and  it  seemed 
to  Deacon  Elwood  as  if  the  preacher  looked  right  at  him, 
as  he  leaned  forward  over  the  pulpit,  and  spoke  in  a  low, 
thrilling  voice,  "  do  the  angels  find  in  the  hidden  inte 
riors  of  your  life  ?  Love  of  the  neighbor  and  love  of 
God?  or  their  dark  opposites,  love  of  the  world  and 
love  of  self?  Do  not  turn  away  from  the  question.  It 
concerns  you  deeply  to  know  the  truth.  What  affec 
tions  do  most  rule  in  your  minds  ?  Take  the  six  days 
of  each  week,  and  from  the  record  of  these  days  an 
swer  the  question,  and,  as  you  value  your  soul's  eternal 
happiness,  answer  it  faithfully.  Heaven  is  a  state  of 
mutual  love  —  a  state  in  which  no  angel  seeks  his  own 
good  and  happiness,  but  the  good  and  happiness  of  oth 
ers.  Are  you  a  godly  man  ?  Your  brethren  say  yes  ; 


212  THE  DEACON'S  DREAM. 

but  to  be  godly  is  to  be  God-like.  And  God  is  ever 
seeking  to  bless  others.  How  is  it  with  you,  taking 
this  standard  ?  I  press  the  question.  How  is  it  with 
you,  my  friend  ?  Are  you  angel-like  and  God-like  ? 
If  not,  your  external  devotion  to  the  church,  your  good 
name  among  the  brethren,  your  pious  observances  and 
well-ordered  prayers,  will  help  you  nothing  in  that  last 
time  when  the  Lord  comes  to  make  up  his  jewels." 

It  seemed  to  Deacon  Elwood,  as  the  minister  leaned 
over  the  pulpit,  speaking  in  a  low,  penetrating  voice, 
which  met  no  obstruction  in  the  hushed  room,  that  he 
was  speaking  to  him  alone.  He  had  never  felt  so 
strangely  impressed  by  a  sermon  in  all  his  life.  One 
thought,  in  particular,  haunted  him  :  it  was  that  of  be 
ing  examined  by  the  pure  angels  after  death,  in  regard 
to  the  quality  of  his  life.  He  did  not  feel  altogether 
satisfied  as  to  the  condition  in  which  they  would  find 
his  more  interior  affections.  The  deacon's  Sunday  din 
ner  was  always  a  good  one,  and,  as  his  appetite  was  not 
very  greatly  disturbed  by  the  sermon,  strongly  as  some 
portions  of  it  had  taken  hold  of  his  thoughts,  he  did 
not  spare  the  "  creature  comforts."  After  dinner,  the 
Sunday  nap  succeeded  as  usual,  and  in  that  temporary 
oblivion  as  to  outward  things,  came  a  dream  that,  while 
it  lasted,  proved  a  most  agonizing  ordeal  to  the  deacon. 
We  will  relate  it  in  his  own  words  : 


THE  DEACON'S  DREAM.  213 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  "  that  my  hour  had  come. 
But  I  was  tranquil.  I  had  been  a  church  member  for 
a  great  many  years,  and  had  been  a  servant  of  the 
church  for  nearly  the  whole  of  that  period.  God's 
grace  was  my  ark  ©f  safety.  I  trusted  in  my  Redeem 
er.  And  so,  peacefully,  I  laid  myself  down  and  slept, 
trusting  to  awake  in  His  righteousness. 

"  Consciousness  came  back  again,  though  after  how 
long  a  period  I  could  not  tell.  But  this  I  .knew  —  I 
had  passed  from  the  natural  to  the  spiritual  world.  I 
lay  as  one  half  awakened,  or  as  in  a  trance,  with  thought 
clear,  yet  with  no  power  of  motion.  Close  by  my  head 
sat  two  angels.  I  did  not  see  them,  but  I  heard  them 
talking  together.  They  were  the  angels  appointed  to 
attend  on  my  entrance  into  the  spiritual  wrorld.  The 
state  of  my  soul  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 
I  was  soon  alive  with  interest  in  regard  to  their  judg 
ment.  Nothing  of  what  I  had  done  in  the  world,  or 
thought,  or  said  —  nothing  as  to  the  doctrines  I  had  be 
lieved  —  was  referred  to,  or  considered.  It  was  the 
state  of  my  affections,  or  of  my  *'  life's  love,'  as  they 
called  it.  They  looked  into  my  spirit,  searching  for 
neighborly  love.  A  low  chill  went  creeping  through 
my  bosom,  as  I  heard  a  sweet,  sad  voice  murmur  — 

"  4  There  is  only  love  of  the  world  here.' 

"  And  I  knew  that  it  was  so ;  for  then  I  saw  mvself 


214  THE  DEACON'S  DREAM. 

as  I  had  never  seen  myself  before.  All  my  life  had 
been  one  ever  out-reaching  desire  for  the  things  of  this 
world  —  for  its  wealth,  its  natural  blessings,  and  even 
its  honors.  All  through  the  six  days  of  each  week  I 
had  sought  my  own  worldly  good  ;  and  on  the  Sabbath 
that  crowned  the  week,  sought,  in  pious  acts,  to  secure 
my  own  salvation.  My  neighbor  had  not  been  in  all  my 
thoughts* 

o 

"  4  Only  love  of  the  world,'  I  heard  sighed  back  by 
the  companion-angel,  '  instead  of  neighborly  love.' 

"  '  And  if  there  is  only  love  of  the  world,'  said  the 
angel  who  had  first  spoken,  '  there  can  be  no  love  of 
God ;  for  if  a  man  love  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath 
seen,  how  can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not  seen  ?  ' 

"  '  Only  love  of  self  and  love  of  the  world,'  sighed 
the  second  angel ;  '  and  heaven  is  a  state  of  love  to  God 
and  the  neighbor.  We  must  depart  from  him,  and  let 
the  evil  spirits  approach  who  are  in  a  state  similar  to  his 
own.  I  thought  to  have  borne  this  newly-risen  soul 
in  joy  upwards  to  the  presence  of  God  ;  but  we  must 
leave  it  to  its  own.' 

"  And  then  I  heard  them  departing.  Oh,  what  an 
guish  of  soul  was  mine  !  Thus  had  I  wakened  to  eter 
nal  verities.  The  angels  who  had  been  appointed  to  re 
ceive  my  soul,  and  bear  it  heavenward,  found  in  it  no 
heavenly  life,  and  they  had  left  me  to  the  companion- 


THE  DEACON'S  DREAM.  215 

ship  of  devils  !  Now  I  felt  a  dark  shadow  stealing 
over  me.  The  evil  spirits  were  approaching,  and  in  the 
horror  of  the  moment  I  started  from  sleep." 

A  thoughtful  man  was  Deacon  Elwood  for  a  long 
time  after  that  alarming  vision.  Dreams  are  of  various 
kinds  —  fantastic,  for  the  most  part  —  yet  sometimes  of 
Providence,  and  significative.  The  deacon  was  never 

in  doubt  as  to  the  character  of  his  dream.     It  was  the 

§ 

most  telling  sermon  ever  addressed  to  him,  and  most 
fruitful  in  genuine  good.  He  looked  down  deeper  into 
his  heart  after  that,  than  he  had  ever  looked  before,  and 
understood  how  gross  had  been  the  naturalism  in  which 
he  had  lived,  even  while  self-congratulant  on  the  score 
of  spiritual-mindedness.  When  the  angels  appointed  to 
receive  his  spirit,  as  it  rises  into  the  eternal  world  at 
death,  examine  him  as  to  his  quality,  may  they  find  that 
true  love  of  God  and  the  neighbor  which  alone  makes 
heaven. 


216 


WOULD  YOU  HAVE  IT  OTHERWISE? 


XXII. 


WOULD  YOU  HAVE  IT  OTHERWISE  ? 


WO  men  met  on  the  public  highway, 
stopped,  clasped  hands,  and  looked  at 
each  other  for  some  moments,  without 
speaking.  The  face  of  one  of  them 
was  worn,  exhausted,  and  shaded  by 
trouble ;  that  of  the  other  calm,  ele 
vated,  and  full  of  sympathetic  life. 

"  I  thought  you  were  triple  guard 
ed,"  said  the  calm-faced  man. 

"  And  I  was,"  replied  the  other.  "  Human  pru 
dence  could  do  no  more.  I  saw  where  other  men  were 
weak  or  foolish,  and  took  warning.  I  never  acted  from 
impulse  ;  never  let  a  too  eager  desire  for  gain  betray  me 
into  unsafe  lines  of  business.  I  built  on  solid  founda 
tions.  And  yet,  for  all  this,  I  am  little  else  than  a  beg 
gar  to-day.  It  is  hard,  Mr.  Melville !  And  I  feel  a 


WOULD   YOU   HAVE   IT   OTHERWISE?  217 

sense  of  wrong.  What  have  I  done,  to  be  thus  pun 
ished  ?  I  can  show  a  fair  record.  No  man  can  ever 
say  that  I  ever  overreached  him  in  business  ;  nor  any 
poor  man  that  I  have  withheld  his  wages,  or  oppressed 
him  in  any  thing.  I  have  been  just  and  honorable  in 
my  dealings,  which  cannot  be  said  of  many  who  still 
count  their  wealth  by  tens  of  thousands.  Talk  of  Prov 
idence  ruling  for  good  in  the  world  !  I  am  not  able  to 
see  it  clearly." 

"  But  you  will  see  it,"  answered  the  one  wrho  had  been 
addressed  as  Mr.  Melville.  "  The  dust  and  smoke  of 
falling  and  consuming  fortune,  have  blinded  your  eyes." 

"  I  shall  never  see  the  justice  that  lies  in  an  almost 
wanton  destruction  of  my  house,  while  my  neighbor's, 
every  brick  of  which  is  cemented  to  its  fellows  by  some 
wrong  deed,  stands  scatheless." 

"  You  state  your  view  of  the  case  broadly,  Mr.  An 
drews." 

"  Yet  with  exact  truth,"  was  answered. 

"  A  year  hence,  and,  in  re-stating  the  case,  you  will 
omit  the  term  wanton." 

"  No  sir !  That  is  wanton  which  looks  to  no  good 
end." 

"  If  good  is  not  regarded,  then  evil  must  be  the  in 
spiring  motive,"  said  Mr.  Melville.  "  And  so,  in  refer- 
10 


218  WOULD    YOU    HAVE    IT   OTHERWISE  ? 

ring  your  misfortune  to   Providence,  you   charge   God 
with  evil." 

"  I  leave  you,  as  a  clergyman,  to  settle  that  point," 
replied  Mr.  Andrews,  with  signs  of  impatience.  "  I  am 
unable  to  see  beyond  the  circle  in  which  I  stand.  Six 
months  ago,  I  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  a  handsome 
property,  honestly  acquired,  through  years  of  patient  la 
bor  in  a  useful  calling.  To-day  I  stand  stripped  of  eve 
rything.  If  not  a  sparrow  falls  unnoted  to  the  ground 
—  if  the  very  hairs  of  our  head  are  numbered  —  all 
this  must  have  reached  me  through  the  permissions,  if 
not  the  ordinations,  of  Proridence.  So  you  read  the 
event,  I  am  sure." 

"  So  I  read  it,  Mr.  Andrews." 

"  And  God  is  good  and  just  ?  " 

"  Essentially  good  and  just." 

"  Expound  the  riddle  then." 

"  I  may  give  you  the  clue  by  which  to  expound  it  for 
3rourself.  Undoubting  convictions  only  come  to  us  as 
the  result  of  experience.  After  we  have  lived  through 
our  disciplinary  states,  we  rise  to  higher  spiritual  eleva 
tions,  thus  gaining  a  clearer  atmosphere,  and  a  wider 
range  of  vision.  Now,  you  are  feeling  around  you  with 
uncertain  hands,  in  the  obscurity  of  a  deep  and  narrow 
valley  ;  but  out  of  this  hindering  state,  you  will  surely 
rise,  and  see  the  broad  fields  rich  with  an  eternal  ver- 


WOULD    TOU   HAVE   IT   OTHERWISE?  219 

Jure  that  your  stronger  hands  ma}7  reap,  and  mountains 
bathed  in  heaven's  own  sunlight,  to  whose  summits  you 
will  have  strength  to  climb.  The  clue  I  offer  is  in  this 
proposition,  the  truth  of  which  is  as  clear  to  me  as  sun 
light  :  The  purposes  of  God,  in  all  His  Providential 
dealings  with  man,  have  regard  to  his  spiritual  well  be 
ing,  and  look  to  his  eternal  happiness  in  heaven  ;  and  to 
this  end,  all  natural  events  are  made  subservient.  If 
continued  worldly  prosperity  will  best  aid  in  the  implan 
tation  of  germs  of  spiritual  life,  and  stimulate  their 
growth,  then  worldly  misfortunes  will  not  come  ;  but  if 
sorrows,  troubles,  or  losses  are  needed,  these,  in  tender 
mercy,  will  be  sent.  So  far  as  my  observation  goes,  the 
sunshine  of  worldly  prosperity  is  not  favorable  to  the 
growth  of  a  divine  life  in  the  human  soul.  It  dries  the 
seed,  and  burns  up  the  tender  shooting  plants  ;  or  so 
stimulates  the  growth  of  noxious  weeds,  that  they  spring 
up  with  a  rank  vitality  and  choke  the  heavenly  ver 
dure." 

Mr.  Andrews  bent  his  head  and  listened.  There  was 
a  pause,  but  he  did  not  answer. 

"  I  will  not  press  the  subject  now,"  said  the  clergy 
man.  "  Take  the  clue  I  have  given,  and  by  means 
thereof  search  for  the  higher  truths  to  which  it  will 
lead.  God  regards  eternal  ends.  Fix  that  in  your 
thought.  Dwell  upon  it.  Try  to  understand  the  im- 


220  WOULD    YOU   HAVE   IT   OTHERWISE? 

mortal,  the  eternal  interests  it  involves ;  and,  in  the  ef 
fort,  light  will  descend  into  your  mind.  God  is  our  fa 
ther,  and,  as  a  father,  will  never  permit  pain  to  reach  us 
except  as  a  warning  against  soul-destroying  evils,  even 
as  pain  of  body  warns  us  of  the  encroachments  of  dis 
eases  that  would  destroy  its  life." 

The  two  men  parted.  Mr.  Andrews  took  with  him 
the  clue  his  minister  had  given.  At  first  he  could  not 
hold  it  steadily.  It  would  drop  from  his  hand  and  seem 
lost.  But,  conscious  that  he  was  in  a  wilderness,  out  of 
which  no  blind  reasonings  of  his  own  could  extricate 
him,  he  would  grapple  after  the  clue,  and,  when  found 
again,  hold  it  with  a  firmer  grasp. 

"  Eternal  ends."  Often  he  found  himself  repeating 
the  words,  while  thought  lifted  itself  now  upward  into 
purer  regions,  or  went  searching  down  into  his  heart, 
turning  over  motives  and  purposes,  and  discovering  in 
many  lurking  places  hidden  things  of  selfishness  that 
could  not  stand  unabashed  in  the  pure  light  of  Chris 
tian  truth.  He  had  been  for  years  building  his  house 
upon  the  sands,  and  now  he  began  to  see  how  uncertain 
were  the  foundations. 

A  year  afterwards.  Let  us  see  how  the  discipline  of 
misfortune  has  wrought  with  Mr.  Andrews.  Let  us 
see  whether  he  has  kept  hold  of  the  clue,  and  whether 
it  has  led  him  out  of  the  bewildering  ma/.e  in  which  he 


WOULD    YOU    HAVE    IT   OTHERWISE?  221 

found  himself.  The  time  is  evening.  He  is  Girting, 
with  his  eyes  on  a  book.  The  apartment  is  small,  plain 
ly  furnished,  but  neat.  A  woman  comes  in,  with  a 
work-basket  in  her  hand,  and  placing  it  on  a  table,  sits 
down  near  him.  He  lifts  Ms  eyes  and  looks  at  her  a 
moment  or  two,  with  a  gentle  smile  of  welcome  on  his 
lips,  and  then  drops  them  again  on  the  page  before  him. 
The  face  of  the  woman  is  peaceful,  and  yet,  in  her  eyes, 
and  around  her  lips,  you  can  see  the  signs  of  past  suffer 
ing.  A  little  while,  and  then  both  look  up  and  listen. 
A  few  moments,  and  the  door  is  opened. 

"  Mr.  Melville  !  "  The  voices  that  greet  the  minister 
are  full  of  welcome. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  you  but  an  instant  ago,"  fell  from 
the  lips  of  Mr.  Andrews. 

"  Our  thoughts  often  go  before  us,  and  announce  our 
coming,"  is  answered. 

A  pleasant  exhilaration  of  mind  follows.  Mr.  An 
drews  is  smiling  and  cheerful,  and  his  wife  leans  and  lis 
tens  with  consenting  interest  as  her  husband  and  the 
minister  fall  into  conversation. 

"  I  think,"  said  Mr.  Melville,  during  the  progress  of 
this  conversation,  "  that  you  kept  firm  hold  of  the  clue 
I  gave  months  ago,  and  that  it  has  enabled  you  to  find 
the  way  out  of  labyrinthine  doubt  into  sunny  regions." 

"  I  see  things  very  differently  to  day,"  was  answered. 


222  WOULD    YOU   HAVE    IT   OTHERWISE? 

"  Consider  my  question  closely.  Would  you  have  it 
otherwise  than  it  is  ?  " 

"  Otherwise  ?  " 

"  Strike,  in  your  thought,  the  balance  of  loss  and 
gain.  Are  you  better  off,  or  worse  off,  than  you  were 
a  year  ago  !  " 

Mr.  Andrews  dropped  his  eyes,  and  began  pondering 
the  question.  He  understood  the  higher  meanings  that 
were  in  Mr.  Melville's  mind. 

"  How  are  your  mental  states  ?  " 

"  More  peaceful !  " 

"  And  your  heart  ?  " 

"  No_t  so  wedded  to  the  things  of  this  world,  which 
are  forever  changing,  alluring,  disappointing." 

"  Things  more  satisfying  are  yours.  Truths,  the  full 
acknowledgment  of  which  lifts  you  into  regions  of  an 
gelic  thought,  and  the  life  of  which  introduces  you  into 
angelic  companionship.  You  are  happier  than  you 

?5  9 

"  I  am  in  greater  tranquillity.  Life  has  deeper  satis 
factions.  And  I  can  see  farther  beyond.  Accumulated 
wealth,  writh  an  ever-growing  desire  to  make  larger  and 
still  larger  accumulations,  walled  me  around,  and  shut 
away  from  my  vision  the  world  of  richer  beauty  I  now 
see,  and  towards  which  I  am  trying  to  walk." 

"  In  striking  the  balance,  then,  the  larger  figures  are 
on  the  side  of  gain." 


WOULD  YOU  HAVE  IT  OTHERWISE        223 

"  Yes,  if  the  things  of  the  spirit  are  of  more  value 
than  the  things  of  sense." 

"  And  they  are.  So  far  outside  of  all  comparison 
are  worldly  riches  and  spiritual  riches,  that  between 
them  we  can  hardly  say  there  is  a  relation  of  values. 

"  *  Wisdom  divine  !     Who  tells  the  price 
Of  wisdom's  costly  merchandise  ? 
Wisdom  to  silver  we  prefer, 
And  gold  is  dross  compared  to  her.' 

No  external  change  ;  no  robbery  ;  no  commercial  disas 
ter  can  touch  this  wealth.  It  is  ours  in  spite  of  all  that 
men  can  do.  God,  in  his  Providence,  does  not  suffer  it 
to  be  wasted  ;  but  all  his  dealings  with  the  children  of 
men  are  to  the  end  that  it  may  be  stored  up  in  their 
minds  for  use ;  and  in  using  it  they  have  undying  felici 
ties.  But  returning  to  my  question  —  Would  you  have 
it  otherwise  than  it  is  ?  Would  you  take  back  the  for 
tune  that  dropped  from  your  possession  a  year  ago,  if, 
with  that  fortune,  your  old  mental  and  moral  states 
must  also  be  restored  ?  " 

For  a  little  while  Mr.  Andrews  leaned  his  head  in 
thought.  Then  looking  up,  he  pronounced  an  emphat 
ic  — 

"No." 

"  God  knows  best,"  said  the  minister.  Too  wise  to 
err,  too  good  to  be  unkind,  all  his  Providences  are  in 


224  WOULD    YOU    HAVE    IT    OTHERWISE? 

love.  It  is  our  misjudgment  that  questions  their  origin 
and  ends.  We  set  our  hearts  on  natural  things  that 
perish  in  the  using  —  that  almost  always  disturb  or  cre 
ate  inordinate  desires,  which  grow  more  clamorous  with 
every  gain.  But  God's  regard  for  these  never  goes  be 
yond  their  service  of  a  more  interior  life  ;  and  he  per 
mits  their  enjoyment,  or  not,  as  giving  or  withholding 
may  serve  the  higher  ends.  Would  He  be  good,  and 
Avise,  and  merciful  were  this  not  so  ?  Who  does  not 
blame  the  weak  parent  who  indulges  the  natural  incli 
nations  of  his  children,  to  the  destruction  of  those  un 
selfish  and  noble  qualities  that  give  to  matured  life  the 
beauty  and  strength  of  a  well  disciplined  manhood  ? 
Shall  God  be  more  foolish  in  dealing  with  His  children 
during  their  probationary  minority  in  this  world  ?  If 
we  call  evil  good,  He  will  not.  You  say  '  No/  you 
would  not  have  it  otherwise  than  it  is.  In  what  marked 
respect  is  it  better  with  you  than  it  was  before  ?  " 

"  Briefly,  in  this :  I  was  a  church  member.  I  desired 
to  live  as  a  Christian  man.  I  looked  to  heaven  as  my 
eternal  dwelling  place  after  life's  fitful  fever.  But,  in 
teriorly,  I  was  selfish  and  worldly  minded.  All  my 
thoughts  revolved  around  myself.  In  my  eager  pursuit 
of  riches,  imagination  toyed  with  possession  and  built 
grand  castles  for  poor  natural  life  to  dwell  in.  It  was 
self —  self —  self.  There  was  rarely  a  thought  of  stew- 


WOULD    YOU    HAVE    IT    OTHERWISE  ?  225 

ardship.  For  me  the  sun  shone,  the  grass  grew,  the 
landscape  spread  itself  in  beauty.  I  became  colder  and 
colder  toward  our  common  humanity ;  and  from  living 
the  bad  precept,  4  every  man  for  himself,'  began  con 
firming  it  as  a  right  axiom.  Thus  it  was  with  me  when 
a  good  Providence  removed  the  worldly  blessings  that  I 
was  using  to  the  destruction  of  my  soul ;  for,  if  to  the 
end  of  life,  I  had  so  kept  on,  turning  myself  away  from 
humanity  and  from  God,  could  I  have  risen,  at  death, 
into  heaven  ?  I  fear  not !  " 

"  So  the  discipline  which  was  so  bitter  at  first,  gives 
sweetness  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.  And  though  poorer  than  a  year  ago,  I  am 
richer  in  the  more  perfect  enjoyment  of  what  things  I 
have,  and  my  future  is  luminous  with  brighter  hopes." 

"  God's  ways  are  not  as  our  ways,'7  said  Mr.  Mel 
ville. 

"  But  they  are  the  true  ways,  and  lead  to  heavenly 
felicities,"  was  the  peaceful  answer. 


IN    THE    HEIIEAFTER. 


XXIII. 

IN  THE  HEREAFTER. 

"  Not  as  a  child  shall  we  again  behold  her.' 


HALL  I  know  him  in  Heaven  ? 

With  what  a  yearning,  almost  pas 
sionate  desire  to  penetrate  the  secrets 
of  the  world  beyond,  did  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  ask  this  question.  The  beautiful 
had  died,  and  left  her  soul  desolate. 
The  light  of  her  life  had  gone  out, 
and  she  sat  in  darkness.  "Shall  I 
know  my  sweet  boy  in  Heaven  ?  " 
On  the  answer  to  this  question,  all  hope  in  the  future 
seemed  resting. 

"  He  will  grow  up  into  the  beauty  and  stature  of  a 
man-angel,"  said  one,  in  answer.  "  Unless  God  should 
call  you  early,  not  as  a  child  may  you  again  behold 
him." 

"  Not  as  a  child  !  "     A  flash  of  pain  quivered  sud- 


IN    THE    HEREAFTER.  227 

denly  among  the  shadows  which  lay  darkly  on  Mrs. 
Harding's  face.  "  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !  I  cannot  believe 
that !  My  darling  will  wait  for  his  mother.  I  must 
find  him  as  I  lost  him.  God  is  not  so  cruel." 

"  She  sat  with  lips  parted,  like  one  in  fear.  The 
friend  resumed  — 

"  He  will  grow  in  Heaven.  Think,  my  dear  friend 
—  must  it  not  be  so  ?  As  his  tender  soul  receives  know 
ledge,  will  it  not  enlarge  ?  and  the  new  body,  of  spiritual 
and  immortal  'substance,  with  which  the  soul  clothes 
itself,  grow  in  corresponding  stature  ?  In  the  laws  of 
our  natural  life,  we  see  only  a  representation  of  the 
laws  of  a  higher  and  spiritual  life.  Turn  away  your 
thoughts  from  grief,  and  let  the  light  of  reason  pene 
trate  your  mind.  Into  sorrow,  an  element  of  blinding 
selfishness  is  almost  sure  to  come.  It  is  of  ourselves, 
and  our  loss,  that  we  think.  But  we  must  rise,  in  a  de 
gree,  superior  to  this  state,  before  we  can  see  and  accept 
the  great  truth,  that,  in  God's  eyes,  all  souls  are  equal, 
and  each  soul  destined  for  its  own  peculiar  place,  and 
designed  for  its  own  peculiar  work  in  the  universe. 
Heaven,  into  which  your  child  has  arisen,  is  not  a 
condition  of  aimless  enjoyment,  but  of  active  service. 
Use  is  the  great  celestial  law,  that,  like  gravitation, 
holds  everything  in  order  and  beautiful  consistence. 
As  he  grows  and  develops  into  an  angel,  the  Master 


228  IN    THE    HEREAFTER. 

Builder  will  lift  him  to  the  place  he  is  designed  to  occu 
py  in  the  living  temple  of  God.  Accept  it  as  a  truth, 
my  dear  friend,  that,  in  dying  young,  and  growing  to 
spiritual  manhood  in  Heaven,  he  will  be  more  truly 
fitted  for  the  place  he  is  designed  to  fill  through  the 
eternal  ages." 

Thought  began  to  stir  in  the  mind  of  the  bereaved 
one.  She  bent  forward  listening. 

"  A  mother's  love  is  the  purest,  and  tenderest,  and 
most  devoted  of  all  loves,"  resumed  the  friend.  Then 
she  added,  dwelling  with  significant  emphasis  on  the 
words  —  "  in  the  beginning '." 

"  Always,  and  forever !  "  was  answered  quickly  —  al 
most  indignantly. 

"  A  mother's  love,  with  all  of  its  unspeakable  depths 
and  yearning  tendernesses,  is  only  God's  love  in  her 
heart,  given  for  the  protection  and  care  of  offspring. 
It  is  seen  in  the  evil,  as  well  as  in  the  good.  Nay  !  do 
not  hold  up  your  hands  in  rejection ;  but  reflect !  Is 
not  the  mother's  love  a  different  emotion  in  the  hour 
when  she  receives  a  feeble,  helpless  babe  upon  her 
"bosom,  from  what  it  is  when  the  boy  goes  forth  to 
school,  or  the  man  steps  out  into  the  world,  to  take  his 
place  among  men  ?  Her  interest  and  affection  do  not 
die  ;  but  love  is  of  a  different  quality.  Why  is  this  ?  " 

The  mother  looked  bewildered.     She  did  not  answer. 


IN    THE    HEREAFTER.  229 

44  Your  mother  loved  you,  when  yon  lay  a  helpless 
babe  in  her  arms,  as  fondly  as  you  loved  him  who  was 
bone  of  your  bone,  and  flesh  of  your  flesh.  If  that 
love  is,  to-day,  what  it  was  twenty-five  years  ago,  has 
your  response  been  adequate  ?  Have  you  done  to  it 
no  violence  ?  But,  it  is  not  the  same ;  and,  therefore, 
even  though  your  heart  turned  from  her,  and  rested  in 
a  more  passionate  and  absorbing  love  for  a  husband,  and 
in  a  tenderer  than  any  filial  love,  upon^your  own  %child, 
yet  did  not  a  shadow  fall  over  her  serene  brow.  Her 
love  had  grown  larger,  and  more  unselfish.  She  had  no 
jealous  pangs.  Her  own  life,  separating  itself  daily, 
more  and  more  from  all  hindering  entanglements  with 
other  lives,  is  growing  more  and  more  perfect  in  that 
just  individuality,  which  gives  to  each  part  its  highest 
relation  of  use  to  the  whole." 

"  Her  life  is  a  saintly  life,"  said  the  mourner.  "  All 
women  are  not  like  my  mother." 

"  Is  not  her  life  a  true  life  ?  " 

44  Yes  — yes." 

44  And,  are  not  all  lives  that  fall  away  from  her  saint 
ly  standard,  just  so  far  inadequate  —  false  lives  ?  " 

44  It  may  be  so." 

44  Did  your  mother  ever  lose  a  babe  ?  " 

44  Yes  ;  a  little  sister  died  in  the  opening  of  her  third 
summer.  Your  question  brings  back  the  memory  of 
that  event  with  a  strange  vividness." 


£30      .  IN    THE    IIEREAFTEH. 

"  Did  she  grieve  for  her  lost  one  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  wildly.  I  was  but  a  child  at  the  time,  yet 
can  I  never  forget  the  intensity  of  my  mother's  sor 
row." 

"  It  seemed  to  you  excessive  ?  " 

44  I  own  that  it  did.  But,  how  could  a  child  compre 
hend  a  mother's  feelings  ?  I  see  it  differently  now." 

"  It  was  like  yours,  a  natural  sorrow,"  said  the  friend, 
44  and  passed,  in  time,  as  yours  will  pass,  giving  place  to 
that  purified  love  of  the  departed,  which  sees  them  as 
goodly  stones,  builded  into  the  temple  of  -the  living  God. 
Natural  loves  are  for  this  world  only,  and  rest  on  per 
sons  and  appearances  ;  but  spiritual  loves  are  based  on 
spiritual  affinities,  and  have  relation  to  interior  likeness 
es,  assimilations  and  consanguinities." 

44  And  shall  we  not  make  up  families  in  Heaven  ?  " 
was  asked,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  44  Will  not  my  moth 
er  find  there  the  child  she  lost  so  many  years  ago  ?  Is 
not  my  father  waiting  for  her  ?  —  and  my  brother,  who 
left  her  just  as  his  manly  tread  passed  bravely  out  into 
the  world  ?  " 

44  If  there  be  in  you  spiritual  as  well  as  natural  con 
sanguinities,  yes.  But  of  this,  only  God  knows.  Of 
one  thing  we  may  be  sure ;  if  we  love  what  is  true,  and 
do  what  is  good,  we  shall  pass,  at  death,  into  the  com 
pany  of  those  who  love  and  do  similar  truth  and  good, 


IN   THE    HEREAFTER.  231 

and  be  supremely  happy  with  them  in  performing  the 
Lord's  work  through  the  ages  of  eternity.  And  what 
is  true  of  us,  will  be  true  of  all  who  lead  good  lives  in 
the  sight  of  God.  These  natural  loves,  which  are 
given  to  us  for  blessing  and  safety  in  this  world,  termi 
nate,  I  think,  with  the  closing  of  natural  life." 

"  No  !  —  no  !  —  no !  I  will  not  believe  it !  Such  a 
doctrine  shocks  me  to  the  very  centre  of  my  being." 
And  the  mother  turned  away  from  her  friend, 

"  You  must  rise  into  a  higher  perception  of  the  mean 
ing  of  a  single  life  before  you  can  understand  this  mat 
ter,"  said  the  friend.  "  In  each  life,  there  is  a  selfhood 
peculiarly  its  own  —  an  individuality  that  makes  the 
quality  of  its  thought  and  affection  different  from  that 
of  all  other  lives  existing  or  possible  to  exist.  In  a 
word,  no  two  human  souls  ever  were,  or  ever  can  be, 
identically  the  same.  Born  from  the  infinite  source  of 
life,  there  must  be  infinite  variety.  But,  as  there  exist 
genera  and  species  in  the  lower  forms  of  nature,  so  do 
these  exist  in  the  higher  spiritual  creation  of  human 
souls.  Every  distinct  individual  of  a  species  holds  like 
ness  and  relationship  with  its  genera  ;  and,  in  like  man 
ner  does  every  soul  distinct  in  itself,  hold  a  likeness  and 
relation  to  other  souls,  and  act  with  them,  for  use,  in 
some  organ  or  part  of  the  grand  man  of  Heaven.  Each 
is  a  centre  of  peculiar  life  and  influence,  yet  reciprocal 


232  IN    THE    HEREAFTER. 

in  giving  and  receiving,  and  acting  in  just  harmony 
with  the  general  law." 

The  mother  did  not  answer,  but  thought  was  again 
active. 

"  See,"  continued  the  friend,  u  how,  as  men  advance 
in  years,  and  their  minds  grow  into  maturing  vigor, 
each  one  separates  himself  more  and  more  from  his 
first  natural  relations,  and  etablishes  a  new  relation  for 
himself,  based  on  the  organic  peculiarities  of  his  own 
mind,  as  differing  from  all  other  minds.  Will  it  be  less 
so  in  the  case  of  those  who  pass  from  the  world,  to  de 
velop  in  Heaven  ?  " 

"  And  so,"  said  the  mourner,  looking  with  sad,  dreary 
eyes,  into  the  face  of  her  friend,  "  you  have  only  this 
consolation  to  offer,  that  my  boy  will  grow  up  to  angel 
ic  manhood  in  Heaven,  and  forget  his  mother  ?  " 

The  friend  did  not  reply.  "  How  is  it  possible," 
such  were  her  thoughts,  "  for  me  to  lift  her  mind  into  a 
perception  of  this  truth,  that  each  soul  is  destined  for 
some  high  and  holy  office,  in  the  performance  of  which 
the  happiness  received  will  be  in  proportion  to  the  good 
that  is  done  ?  "  After  a  brief  silence,  she  said,  her 
tones  softening  — 

"  You  love  him  very  much  ?  " 

Eyes  swimming  in  tears,  were  the  mother's  answer. 

"  And  desire  his  supremest  happiness  ?  " 


IN   THE    HEREAFTER.  233 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  And  that  must  come  in  Heaven,  whither  our  good 
Lord  has  translated  him.  I  do  not  think,  even  now, 
that  you  would  take  him  back,  were  it  in  your  power, 
into  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain." 

tc  I  do  not  ask  to  receive  him  back.  My  love  is  not 
so  selfish  as  that.  Oh,  no,  no  !  Dear  babe  !  I  give 
him  to  the  angels.  But,  may  I  not  find  him  again  ? 
May  I  not  once  more  take  him  into  my  arms  ?  That 
is  the  question.  Ah,  my  friend,  your  answers  to  this 
question  do  not  bring  hope  or  consolation.  They  say 
—  You  have  lost  your  babe  forever  !  " 

"  Have  you  not  rather  found  him  forever  ?  "  said  the 
friend. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  a  look  of  surprise. 

"  If  he  had  lived,  and  grown  up  in  this  world,  would 
you  not  have  lost  your  babe  ?  The  baby  would  have 
died  in  the  boy ;  the  boy  in  the  youth  ;  the  youth  in 
the  man.  Now,  love  may  hold  the  precious  one  for 
ever  to  your  heart.  If  you  live  here  until  fourscore, 
you  may,  at  any  time,  fold  back  the  curtain  of  memory, 
and  look  into  the  cradle  where  infancy  smiles.  Grief 
will  be  lost  in  the  passage  of  years,  but  a  holy  tender 
ness,  full  of  sweetness  and  tranquillity,  will  remain.  Of 
all  your  children,  should  the  rest  be  spared,  his  memory 
will  be  most  precious.  Looking  down  into  my  own 
heart,  I  speak  of  what  I  do  know." 


234  IN    THE    HEREAFTER. 

"  But,  for  all  that,  he  will  not  remain  a  babe,"  said 
the  mother.  "  He  will  grow  up  into  the  stature  of  an 
angel." 

"  Yes." 

"  And  cease  to  think  of  her  who  bore  him." 

"  Just  in  the  degree  that  you,  in  heavenly  uses  and 
the  delights  springing  therefrom,  Avill  forget,  in  the 
cycles  of  eternity,  your  mother,  and  she  the  mother  on 
whose  bosom  she  once  lay  in  the  helplessness  of  infancy. 
God  has  work  for  all  his  children  ;  for  you  and  for  me ; 
for  your  babe  called  early  to  heaven,  as  well  as  for  my 
babe  who  went  there  many  years  ago.  Let  us  be  glad 
in  heart,  my  friend,  that  we  have  been  called  to  the 
high  office  of  increasing,  even  by  one  addition,  the 
heaven  of  angels.  Picture  to  yourself  a  pure  and  wise 
being,  forever  active  in  good  deeds ;  forever  seeking  to 
impart  happiness  to  others  ;  forever  ministrant  to  tempt 
ed  and  sorrowing  ones  here,  or  adding  to  the  delights 
of  heaven,  and  then  think  :  —  'In  my  body  that  being 
had  life  !  '  Does  not  the  thought  send  a  thrill  of  strange 
gladness  through  your  soul  ?  It  does.  I  see  it  by  the 
clearer  light  in  your  eyes.  I  see  it  in  the  serener  ex 
pression  of  your  face.  Nay  —  nay  !  You  would  not 
have  your  baby  wait  in  helpless  infancy,  through  the 
long  period  that  may  pass  ere  your  time  of  removal 
come,  in  order  that  you  may  clasp  him,  as  a  baby, 


IN   THE   HEREAFTER.  235 

again  to  your  heart.  A  truer  and  a  purer  love  desires 
to  see  him  a  man-angel,  nobly  fulfilling  the  laws  of  an 
gelic  life." 

"  I  will  think  of  all  this,"  said  the  mourner,  speaking 
more  calmly.  "  You  have  led  me  up  to  a  place  from 
which  I  have  a  wider  range  of  vision.  Some  things  as 
sume  different  aspects  and  relations.  I  may  have  been 
very  selfish,  very  limited  in  my  feelings.  But,  I  pray 
God  to  give  me  light  and  comfort  in  this  deep  sorrow. 
I  would  be  patient  and  submissive.  Ah,  yes  ;  —  It  is  a 
high  thought  that  you  have  given  me.  —  And  shall  I, 
in  the  weakness  of  a  mother's  love,  desire  to  hold  my 
boy  back  from  his  true  life,  rather  than  in  its  strength 
to  ask  for  him  growth  and  development,  even  to  the 
stature  and  powers  of  eternal  manhood  in  heaven  ? 
No  —  no  !  Let  me  rise  above  this  weakness  of  sorrow, 
and  put  on  its  strength." 

By  true  thoughts  we  are  lifted  out  of  darkened  states. 
But,  these  states  return  again.  Thought  folds  its  wings, 
letting  us  sink  into  the  obscurity  from  which  we  had 
arisen.  But,  we  remember  the  higher  regions,  the 
broader  vision,  and  the  serener  atmosphere  in  which  we 
breathed,  and,  after  awhile,  uplift  our  wings,  and  try 
once  more  to  reach  the  upper  air.  We  gain  it.  How 
much  clearer  the  sight  than  before  !  What  seemed  ob 
scure,  or  confused,  in  the  first  ascent,  now  stands  forth 


236  IN   THE    HEREAFTER. 

in  well  defined  aspect.  Accepting  the  lessons  of  truth, 
even  though  in  some  violence  to  natural  affection,  we 
do  not  recede  into  such  deep  obscurity,  when  we  sink 
to  the  level  of  actual  states  again  ;  but  see  clearer,  and 
rest  on  the  truths  we  have  seen. 

So  it  was  with  our  stricken  mother,  who,  in  the  be 
ginning  of  her  sorrow,  refused  to  be  comforted.  Her 
friend  had  lifted  her  into  a  region  of  thought  unattained 
till  now  :  —  had  given  her  views  never  before  suggested. 
They  did  not  afford  her  the  assurance .  for  which  her 
soul  was  craving ;  the  comfort  she  asked  ;  but  they 
gave  her  glimpses  of  a  broader  plan  in  the  creation  of 
human  souls  than  she  had  ever  conceived. 

"  Thy  will,  not  mine  be  done,"  she  murmured,  lifting 
her  eyes  upwards,  as  she  pondered  when  alone,  all  that 
her  friend  had  spoken.  And  even  as  she  said  this,  the 
mantle  of  peace  was  gathered,  by. angel  hands,  around 
her  soul.  Still,  love's  deep  yearning  was  not  suppressed  ; 
and  still  the  heart  asked,  "  Shall  I  know  him  in  heav 
en  ?" 

That  night,  a  dream  held  her  through  all  the  long 
watches.  She  was  sitting  in  sorrow  by  the  empty  cra 
dle  of  her  boy,  when  a  stranger  entered  the  room,  and 
said,  "  Come.  You  shall  go  to  your  lost  one."  No 
awe  oppressed  her.  Rising,  with  hope  and  joy  in  her 
heart,  she  followed  the  stranger.  They  journeyed  for 


IN    THE    HEREAFTER.  237 

what  seemed  a  long  time,  first  passing  through  dark 
forests  and  deep  valleys  ;  and  then  through  fair  land 
scapes,  gradually  ascending,  widening  and  increasing  in 
beauty,  until  they  reached  a  city  so  fair  to  look  upon, 
that  its  splendor  oppressed  her  soul.  The  walls  were 
of  precious  stones,  the  gates  of  pearl,  and  the  streets  of 
pure  gold.  As  she  moved  along  the  crystalline  pave 
ments,  she  saw  houses  and  palaces  of  wondrous  design 
and  proportions,  such  as  no  mortal  conception  had  ever 
reached.  Into  one  of  the  grandest  of  these  she  entered 
with  her  guide,  passing  under  vast  porticos  borne  up  by 
jasper  columns,  and  along  halls  and  corridors  that 
stretched  to  interminable  distances. 

"  Here,"  spoke  the  attendant,  "  first  come  all  infants 
who  die  in  the  world,"  and  as  he  said  this,  the  mother 
found  herself  in  a  wide  chamber,  the  air  of  which  was 
full  of  sweet  odors,  and  tremulous  with  low  music,  to 
which  her  heart  leaped  in  tender  responses.  That  odor 
was  from  the  breath  of  infants  ;  and  the  music  that 
filled  the  room  was  the  harmonious  mingling  of  baby 
voices.  As  she  entered,  a  beautiful  maiden  came  to 
meet  her.  Lovingly  she  held  to  her  bosom  the  babe 
that  mother  had  lost  a  little  while  before. 

*'  Oh,  give  him  to  me  !  "  cried  the  mother,  eagerly 
stretching  out  her  hands. 

"  Will  you  take  him  back  ?  "  said  the  maiden,  as  she 
laid  the  baby  in  her  arms. 


238  IN   THE   HEREAFTER. 

"  Mine  !  mine  !  "  exclaimed  the  mother,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  joy,  as  she  clasped  her  lost  one  almost  wildly  to  her 
heart. 

"  And  God's,"  answered  the  maiden,  gently  yet  rev 
erently.  "  You  were  chosen  by  Him  to  this  great  hon 
or." 

A  new  impulse  stirred  in  the  mother's  heart.  Love 
lost  nothing  of  its  intensity,  but  was  elevated.  Selfish 
affection  died,  and  in  her  whole  being  she  felt  the  mo 
tions  of  a  higher  life. 

"  Shall  I  keep  this  babe  all  to  myself,"  she  said,  in 
her  heart.  "  Shall  I  take  him  back  to  a  world  of  pain 
and  trouble,  when  his  presence  here  gives  a  new  pulse 
of  joy  to  heaven  ?  No  —  no  !  That  would  be  selfish 
ness,  not  love.  Chosen  by  God  to  this  great  honor  ! 
Oh,  life,  life  I  What  a  blessing,  if  only  for  this  !  " 

"  You  will  not  take  him  back,"  said  the  maiden,  with 
a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness. 

The  mother  laid  the  babe  softly  on  the  maiden's  bo 
som,  kissed  him,  and  turned  away.  As  she  did  so,  her 
attendant  led  her  out  by  an  open  door,  and  they  passed 
through  palaces,  fields,  and  groves.  The  time  was 
long  and  the  distance  great.  Years  seemed  to  elapse. 
At  last  they  came  to  a  large  building,  grandly  beautiful 
in  its  architecture,  and  rising  in  the  midst  of  a  garden. 
Entering,  she  found  it  to  be  a  hall  of  instruction,  in 
which  pupils  with  their  teachers  were  assembled. 


IN   THE    HEREAFTER.  239 

"  Here,"  said  the  attendant,  "  youths,  who  have 
grown  up  from  infancy  in  heaven,  are  taught.  The 
mind  does  not  change  in  its  character  by  death.  Trans 
lation  from  the  natural  to  the  spiritual  world  cannot,  in 
itself,  make  any  soul  wiser.  Instruction  in  spiritual 
sciences  and  knowledges  is  as  needful  here,  as  instruc 
tion  in  natural  sciences  and  knowledges  in  the  lower 
world.  For  this  reason,  the  young  are  taught  in  schools 
by  wise  and  loving  instructors." 

The  mother  stood  in  a  wide  hall,  in  which  were  many 
groups  of  children,  gathered  around  their  teachers,  and 
listening  to  the  words  that  fell  from  their  lips  with  the 
most  earnest  and  pleased  attention.  Soon,  all  the 
groups,  or  classes,  arranged  themselves,  by  a  spontane 
ous  movement,  into  a  single  group,  and  one  who  was 
chief  of  the  instructors  stood  forth  and  said  — 

"  Our  theme  to-day  has  been  Heavenly  Happiness. 
In  what  does  it  consist?  " 

A  youth,  tender  in  years,  but  with  pure  thought  writ 
ten  on  his  white  forehead,  away  from  which  the  hair  fell 
back  in  luxuriant  curls,  arose  amid  his  companions  and 
answered  — 

"  Heavenly  happiness  is  the  delight  of  use.'" 

"  And  what  is  the  delight  of  use  ?  "  asked  the  in 
structor. 

"  That  interior  joy  which  always  comes  into  the  soul, 
when  good  is  done  from  a  love  of  good." 


240  IN   THE   HEHEAFTER. 

"  Whence  does  it  come  ?  " 

44  From  the  Lord,  who  is  the  bestower  of  all  good," 
answered  the  youth. 

Then  it  was  given  the  mother  to  know,  that  he  who 
thus  answered  was  her  own  son  —  not  now  a  babe,  but 
in  the  blossom  of  advancing  years ;  growing  in  intelli 
gence  and  wisdom,  towards  the  stature  of  an  angel. 
And  he  came  to  her,  after  the  school  had  closed,  and 
tenderly  looking  at  her  said  — 

44  Oh,  life  is  a  blessing  ;  and  blessed  are  they  through 
whom  God  gives  life." 

There  followed  another  long  journey  amid  scenes  of 
ineffable  beauty  and  grandeur,  occupying  a  period  that 
would  have  been,  in  time,  the  aggregate  of  years. 
Then  was  entered  a  temple  where  one  taught,  and  the 
words  that  fell  from  his  lips  were  in  sentences  of  wisdom, 
such  as  only  the  wisest  and  best  of  angels  had  power  to 
utter.  And  they  who  hearkened,  hung  with  rapt  inter 
est  on  his  words.  When  the  discourse  was  over,  the 
audience  went  out,  talking  together  of  what  they  had 
heard,  and  the  mother  listened  to  their  speech,  and 
knew  as  she  listened,  that  the  wise  teacher  of  whom 
they  spake,  was  once  a  babe  on  her  bosom.  And  as 
this  knowledge  came,  the  teacher  stood  by  her  side. 
The  sweetness  of  his  countenance  filled  her  with  un 
speakable  delight.  It  seemed  as  if  heaven's  own  sun- 


IN   THE   HEREAFTER.  241 

shine  were  falling  into  her  soul.  Bending,  with  a  lov 
ing  grace,  he  said  — 

"  We  are  the  children  of  God,  when  born  into  heav 
en  ;  and  in  doing  His  work,  receive  the  blessedness  of 
heaven.  All  souls  are  His  —  yours,  mine  —  and  for 
each  He  has  work  that  shall  not  fail  in  all  the  eternal 
ages,  —  work,  in  the  doing  of  which  perpetual  joy  is 
born.  Make  yourself  ready  for  this  work  in  a  patient, 
trusting  submission  to  His  will,  and  in  deeds  of  love  to 
His  children.  He  will  make  up  your  jewels." 

The  vision  passed,  and  it  was  morning.  Those  who 
had  looked  upon  the  grieving  mother's  countenance 
when  the  day  went  out  in  a  darkness  not  so  deep  as 
that  which  enshrouded  her  spirit,  wondered  at  its  calm 
ness  and  elevation.  But  she  spoke  not  of  the  vision, 
though  its  influence  rested  upon  her  soul  like  a  peace 
ful  benediction. 

11 


242 


SHE    WENT   AWAY    WITH   THE   ANGELS. 


XXIV. 

SHE  WENT  AWAY  WITH  THE  ANGELS. 

j  ITTLE  Nellie  Winter  is  dead  !  "  said 
a  neighbor,  coming  hurriedly  into  Mrs. 
Grover's  sitting  room.  There  was  a 
look  of  grief  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears. 

"  Dead  !  "    and   the   work  fell   into 
Mrs.    Grover's   lap.      t;  Dead  !      Poor 
Mary  Winter  !  it  will  break  her  heart. 
That  child  was  her  idol." 
"  She   was   a   dear   little   girl,"    said   the   neighbor. 
"  Too  good  to  live  in  this  world,  I  have  often  thought. 
Did  you    never  notice,   Mrs.   Grover,  what  a  strange 
sweetness  played  sometimes  about  her  mouth." 
"  Yes,  I  have  often  observed,  and  spoken  of  it." 
"  And  there  was  something  very  uncommon  in  the 
way  she  looked  out  of  her  eyes.     Some  people's  eyes 


SHE  WENT  AWAY  WITH  THE  AXGELS.      243 

look  straight  forward,  some  a  little  downward,  and  some 
restlessly  from  side  to  side ;  but  Nellie's  large,  clear, 
blue  eyes  seemed  always  looking  upwards,  and  there 
was  an  expression  in  them  as  if  they  had  visions  not  re 
vealed  to  grosser  sight." 

"  Have  you  seen  Mary  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Grover. 

"  No  ;  Aunty  Granger  came  by  our  house  just  now, 
and  told  me  of  Nellie's  death.  I  must  run  back,  and 
put  on  my  things,  and  go  over  immediately." 

"  Call  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Grover.  "  I  will  get  ready 
and  go  with  you.  Poor  Mary  !  I  dread  to  see  her." 

The  neighbors  parted,  but  were  together  again  in  less 
than  ten  minutes,  and  on  their  way  to  visit  a  sister  in 
affliction. 

"  I  wonder  how  she  bears  it  ?  What  did  Aunty 
Granger  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  as  to  that.  She  merely  brought  me  word, 
and  then  hurried  away.  She  said  that  Nellie  died  about 
two  hours  ago,  and  that  she  had  been  helping  to  lay  her 
out." 

"  Well,  I  know  how  to  feel  for  Mary,"  said  the  neigh 
bor,  in  a  sorrowful  voice.  "  I've  lost  children,  and 
know  what  a  heart-breaking  thing  it  is.  Talking  to  one 
does  no  good.  They  talked  to  me  —  ministers,  and 
friends,  and  all  ;  but  they  might  as  well  have  talked  to 
the  wind." 


244     SHE  WENT  AWAY  WITH  THE  ANGELS. 

"  Mary  Winter  has  a  great  deal  of  fortitude,  and  she 
is  a  true  Christian  woman,"  remarked  Mrs.  Grover. 

"  I  think  her  a  little  cold,"  was  replied  to  this. 

"  May  it  not  be  that  she  has  schooled  her  feelings  into 
submission  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  so,  I  cannot  tell.  We  are  not  all  alike  ; 
but  if  Mary  can  bear  this  trouble  calmly,  she  is  made 
of  sterner  stuff  than  common  mortals.  An  eye  pluck 
ed  out  gives  in  tensest  pain." 

And  so  the  two  neighbors  talked,  until  they  came  to 
the  door  on  which  hung  the  sign  of  death,  when  they 
were  silent.  A  moment  or  two  they  paused  on  the 
threshhold,  and  then  passed  in.  The  door  opened  di 
rectly  into  Mrs.  Winter's  small  parlor,  or  best  room, 
as  she  modestly  called  it.  Gentle  hands  had  already 
done  the  work  of  preparation  for  the  grave :  and  there 
lay  the  pure  body  of  the  departed  one,  wrapped  in 
snowy  garments.  A  few  friends  were  in  the  room,  and 
all  were  standing  near  the  body,  gazing  in  silence  upon 
the  dead  face,  that  looked  like  an  exquisite  piece  of 
sculpture.  There  was  no  harsh  or  repellant  aspect  in 
the  countenance  —  nothing  that  chilled  you  with  a  mor 
tal  coldness  ;  but  only  a  look  of  Heavenly  sweetness. 
Death  had  done  his  work  with  a  gentle  hand. 

From  the  little  parlor,  Mrs.  Grover  and  her  compan 
ion  went  to  the  chamber  where  the  stricken  mother  had 


SHE  WENT  AWAY  WITH  THE  ANGELS.      245 

retired.  Their  visit  was  not  one  of  vulgar  intrusion. 
It  was  prompted  by  true  womanly  sympathy.  The  cur 
tains  were  drawn,  and  the  room  in  shadow,  but  not 
darkened.  Two  neighbors  were  sitting  with  Mrs.  Win 
ter,  and  from  the  look  on  all  their  faces,  it  was  evident 
they  had  been  conversing.  The  mother's  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  but  her  countenance  was  rather  elevated 
than  depressed.  She  reached  her  hand  to  the  new  com 
ers,  and  even  smiled  faintly  as  she  greeted  them. 

Mrs.  Grover  pressed  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Winter,  and 
looked  tenderly  in  her  face,  but  did  not  venture  a  word  ; 
the  neighbor  who  had  accompanied  her  said,  in  a  voice 
broken  with  feeling, 

"  Oh,  Mary !  this  is  very  sad ;  my  heart  aches  for 
you.  Death  is  a  terrible  thing." 

"  It  is  hard  for  those  who  are  left  behind."  Her 
voice  trembled,  and  tears  fell  over  her  cheeks  ;  yet  did 
not  the  smile  around  her  lips  fade  wholly  away. 

"  And  it  is  hard,  also,  for  those  who  go  away,"  an 
swered  the  neighbor,  without  reflection.  "  Oh,  the 
doubt  and  darkness,  the  uncertainty  of  that  unknown 
voyage  into  eternity,  which  every  soul,  small  or  great, 
must  take  alone.  I  shudder  to  think  of  it." 

"  Not  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Winter,  impressively,  "  not 
alone.  God  is  too  full  of  tender  compassion  for  his  chil 
dren,  to  let  one  of  them  go  unattended  over  the  river 


246      SHE  WENT  AWAY  WITH  THE  ANGELS. 

of  death.  I  knew  that  dear  Nellie  went  away  with  the 
angels,  for  I  felt  their  holy  presence  in  the  last  hour, 
and  when  the  eyes  of  my  child  looked  their  last  look  on 
my  face,  I  knew  that  they  opened  upon  the  inner  world, 
and  rested  serenely  on  the  countenances  of  Heavenly 
attendants." 

Tears  were  running  over  the  face  of  Mrs.  Winter,  as 
she  said  this.  Her  pious  faith,  while  it  threw  a  shining 
bridge  over  the  abyss  that  lies  between  earth  and  Heav 
en,  and  took  away  all  painful  thoughts  of  her  child,  did 
not  exclude  from  her  heart  the  anguish  of  bereavement. 
She  was  human. 

u  Went  away  with  the  angels,"  said  the  neighbor,  as 
if  struck  with  the  words.  She  spoke  half  to  herself; 
"  Oh,  if  one  could  believe  that." 

"  It  is  with  me  no  matter  of  dim  faith,  but  a  confi 
dent  assurance,"  answered  Mrs.  Winter.  "  The  spirit 
ual  world,  into  which  we  go  on  leaving  this  outer  state 
of  being,  is  a  world  of  real  things,  and  peopled  like 
this  ;  for  have  not  untold  millions  gone  into  it  ?  And 
can  I  believe  anything  else  than  that,  when  one  is  pass 
ing  upward  to  the  great  company  of  angels,  God  com 
missions  some  of  them  to  receive  the  pure  spirit,  as  it 
emerges  into  their  world  ?  It  is  easy  for  me  to  believe 
this  —  impossible  to  believe  the  opposite.  Yes,  yes, 
dear  Nellie  went  away  with  the  angels,  and  is  with  them 


SHE    WENT   AWAY   WITH   THE   ANGELS.  247 

"  I  went  there  hoping  to  speak  a  comforting  word  to 
Mary,"  said  the  neighbor,  as  she  walked  homeward, 
"  but,  instead,  the  mourner  has  spoken  comfort  to  my 
own  heart.  Ah,  Mrs.  Grover,  that  thought  of  going 
alone  into  the  world  beyond  —  of  my  timid,  shrinking 
child's  going  alone,  and  meeting  the  terrors  of  death, 
has  haunted  me  like  a  spectre.  But,  Mary  Winter's 
confident  assurance  that  Nellie  went  away  attended  by 
angels,  is  already  taking  shape  in  my  mind,  and  giving 
to  it  a  new  balance ;  I  see  dimly,  yet  it  is  true  that  it 
must  be  so." 

"  It  must  be  so  of  tender,  innocent  children,"  said 
Mrs.  Grover.  "  And  if  true  of  children,  why  not  true 
of  every  soul  that  rises  into  the  spiritual  world,  which 
is  not  a  vast  chimerian  wildness,  but  a  world  of  perfect 
order  and  beauty.  We  think,  as  a  general  thing,  too 
sadly  of  death,  and  invest  it  with  unreal  terrors,  when 
at  most  it  is  a  simple  passage  of  the  human  soul  into  its 
higher  and  more  perfect  sphere  of  life.  The  sadness 
and  fear  should  only  have  reference  to  an  evil  and  cor 
rupt  heart,  for  the  death  is  indeed  a  sad  completion  of 
that  portion  of  life  in  which  the  after  condition  is  fixed 
to  eternity.  But  when  little  children,  and  good  men 
and  women  die,  we  need  not  weep  at  their  change,  for 
they  have  only  gone  from  us  in  company  with  angels." 


248 


THE   WINE   OF   LIFE. 


XXV. 

THE  WINE  OF  LIFE. 

IFE  was  getting  to  be  a  dull  affair  with 
Mr.  Clayton.  He  found  it  hard  work 
to  fill  the  passing  hours  with  even  a 
low  degree  of  interest.  While  in  busi 
ness,  the  days  came  and  went,  each 
with  that  measure  of  pleasant  excite 
ment  which  is  always  attendant  on  men- 
all  and  bodily  activity.  But  in  one  of 
the  series  of  mutations  always  attend 
ant  on  human  life,  Mr.  Clayton  found  himself  ruled  out 
of  business,  and  left,  with  a'  small  competence,  idle. 

Thirty  thousand  dollars  were  paid  to  Mr.  Clayton  in 
cash,  as  his  share  of  profit.  In  less  than  a  week  after 
wards  he  had  received  over  half  a  dozen  proposals  to  re- 
enter  business.  Some  from  established  firms  in  want  of 
capital,  and  some  from  ambitious  young  men,  whose  po 
sition  as  salesmen  in  extensive  establishments  gave  them, 


THE   WINE   OF   LIFE.  249 

as  they  supposed,  large  ability  to  control  custom.  But 
to  all  of  these  Mr.  Clayton  turned  an  indifferent  ear. 

"  A  bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush,"  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  looked  calmly  at  his  bank  account. 
"  I'll  put  this  beyond  the  reach  of  danger,  and  then 
take  mine  ease." 

Between  two  and  three  months  of  pleasant  excite 
ment  were  passed  in  the  work  of  settling  the  basis  of 
his  future  income,  a  period  of  real  enjoyment  to  our  re 
tired  merchant.  A  new  life  seemed  to  flow  through  his 
veins.  The  mill-horse  routine  of  daily  duties  was 
changed  for  a  state  of  freedom  to  go  out  and  come  in  at 
his  own  good  pleasure ;  and  Mr.  Clayton  often  pitied 
the  old  business  acquaintances  whom  he  met  occasion 
ally  hurrying  along  the  street,  with  shut,  earnest  lips 
and  care-contracted  brows.  He  felt  himself  to  them  as 
the  freed  courser  in  a  wide  and  grassy  meadow,  to  the 
toiling  beast,  dragging  wearily  at  his  load. 

But  there  came  another  state  of  mind.  After  com 
pleting  his  investments,  Mr.  Clayton  had  nothing  else 
to  do  ;  and  soon,  when  morning  broke,  his  thought  be 
gan  to  reach  forward  through  the  day  with  a  vague 
searching  disquietude.  For  books  he  had  little  taste  ; 
for  art  less.  Politics  had  no  charm  for  one  of  his  tem 
perament.  He  voted  with  his  party,  more  from  habit 
and  prejudice  than  from  reason  and  principle.  This 


250  THE    WINE    OF    LIFE. 

done,  he  left  matters  of  public  interest  to  take  care  of 
themselves  —  at  least,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned. 

A  year  of  leisure  had  been  enjoyed,  and  life,  as  we 
said  in  the  beginning,  was  getting  to  be  a  dull  affair 
with  Mr.  Clayton.  His  mind,  like  a  stagnant  pool,  was 
beginning  to  breed  unsightly  and  noxious  things.  He 
was  growing  crotchetty,  strangely  self-willed,  unreason 
able,  and  ill-tempered  at  home,  so  that  his  wife  and  or 
phan  niece  —  he  had  no  children  — were  having  an  un 
comfortable  time  with  him.  Mr.  Clayton  was  not  phi 
losopher  enough  to  understand  his  own  case.  He  did 
not  know  that,  even  to  evil  men,  states  of  tranquillity 
and  interior  satisfaction  come  as  the  reward  of  useful 
work  ;  nor  that  the  good  feel  disquietude  whenever  they 
fold  their  arms  in  voluntary  idleness.  It  had  not  oc 
curred  to  him  that  the  mind  was  a  beautiful  and  highly 
complicated  machine,  that  must  .be  kept  in  orderly  mo 
tion,  or  rust  and  damage  ensue.  No,  Mr.  Clayton  was 
a  dull  thinker.  He  lacked  enthusiasm.  From  quick 
moving  thoughts  the  light  of  perception  was  not 
evolved. 

One  day,  after  exhaling  certain  noxious  things,  bred 
in  the  stagnant  pools  of  his  mind,  arousing  his  wife  to 
anger,  and  hurting  his  dependent  siece,  so  that  she  re 
solved,  and  even  threatened,  to  leave  his  house,  Mr. 
Clayton  strayed  forth,  an  aimless  and  an  unhappy  man, 


THE   AVIXK    OF    LIFE.  251 

to  kill  the  hours  until  it  should  be  time  to  return  to  din 
ner. 

The  dinner  bell  did  not  ring  for  some  minutes  after 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Clayton  at  home.  Taking  up  a 
newspaper,  he  commenced  running  his  eyes  along  the 
col  urns  for  something  of  interest.  This  paragraph  ar 
rested  his  attention.  "  The  very  thing  that  men  need 
in  life  is  some  satisfying  and  exalting  element,  that  shall 
give  heroism  and  elevation  to  the  affairs  of  daily  life. 
We  live  in  the  midst  of  vulgarities,  little  petty  troubles, 
a  thousand  mechanical  things  that  have  not  much  juice 
in  them.  The  greater  part  of  our  life  is  spent  in  con 
tact  with  things  that  have  little  in  themselves  to  reward 
our  sensibility.  We  must,  therefore,  have  something  in 
the  soul  to  make  them  glorious." 

At  almost  any  other  time  this  would  have  been  to  Mr. 
Clayton  as  if  uttered  in  a  dead  language.  He  would 
have  perceived  no  meaning  in  it  whatever.  Now  it 
was  a  gleam  of  light. 

"  Heaven  knows,"  he  said,  speaking  to  himself,  and 
with  sufficient  mental  energy  to  stir  his  heart  with 
stronger  pulses  —  "  Heaven  knows  that  I  want  some 
satisfying  and  exalting  element  to  give  heroism  and  ele 
vation  to  the  things  of  my  daily  life." 

After  dinner  Mr.  Clayton  did  not  fall  to  sleep  in  his 
chair  —  now  a  common  habit  —  and  doze  away  an  hour 


252  THE    WINE    OF    LIFE. 

or  two.  His  thoughts  had  been  set  in  motion,  and 
kept  on  with  sufficient  velocity  to  overcome  all  inclina 
tion  to  drowsiness.  About  four  o'clock  word  came  to 
him  that  a  gentleman  had  called — Mr.  Walker,  a  per 
son  who  had  asked  for  him  in  the  mornino-. 

& 

On  meeting  this  gentleman,  Mr.  Clayton  recognized 
him  as  one  often  seen  on  the  street  in  public  places,  but 
never  personally  identified. 

"  I  have  come,"  he  said,  coming  at  once  to  the  ob 
ject  of  his  visit,  "  to  see  if  I  cannot  interest  you  in  a 
matter  that  every  good  citizen  and  Christian  man  should 
have  at  heart.  A  few  of  us,  painfully  alive  to  the  con 
dition  of  a  large  number  of  little  children  in  this  part 
of  the  city,  who  are  abandoned  or  neglected  by  their 
parents,  and  consequently  growing  up  in  ignorance  and 
vice,  have  determined  to  found  an  institution,  if  possible, 
for  their  asylum  and  instruction.  We  have  already  pro 
cured  funds,  rented  a  house,  and  employed  a  matron 
and  assistants.  Twenty  children,  boys  and  girls,  have 
been  taken  from  the  street,  and  are  now  comfortably 
clothed,  fed  and  instructed.  Now,  what  we  want,  Mr. 
Clayton,  is  a  man  of  leisure  who  will  give  a  few  hours 
of  each  day  to  the  supervision  of  this  important  charity. 
I  am  engaged  in  business,  and,  however  much  my  heart 
may  be  in  the  thing,  cannot  assume  so  important  a  duty. 
The  same  is  true  of  others  who  are  acting  with  me. 


THE    WINE   OF   LIFE.  253 

This  morning  a  gentleman  suggested  your  name,  and  I 
have    called  to  see  if  we    cannot   interest   you    in    the 

cause." 
/ 

44  Suppose,"  said  Mr.  Walker,  ere  the  response  came, 
"  that  you  go  round  with  me  to  our  rooms,  and  see 
what  we  are  doing.  They  are  in  the  neighborhood. 
I'm  sure  you  will  be  interested." 

44 1  will  do  so,"  answered  Mr.  Clayton,  accepting  the 
opportunity  to  postpone  a  decision  that  he  was  not  yet 
prepared  to  make.  He  did  not  feel  like  saying  no,  and 
was  far  from  being  inclined  to  say  yes. 

Mr.  Clayton  was,  naturally,  a  kind-hearted  man. 
Enough  was  shown  him  at  the  asylum  to  touch  his  sym 
pathies,  awaken  his  interest,  and  give  to  his  stimulated 
mental  powers  the  element  of  heroism.  It  took  but 
little  persuasion  on  the  part  of  three  or  four  intelligent 
citizens,  who  were  present,  and  under  engagement  to 
meet  weekly  at  the  rooms  for  conference,  to  lead  Mr. 
Clayton  to  accept  the  important  office  of  daily  visitor 
and  overseer  of  a  nursery  for  human  souls,  abandoned 
but  for  this  refuge  to  the  coils  of  the  Wicked  One. 

There  was  no  more  weariness  of  mind  after  this  —  no 
more  beatings  about  of  thought,  oppressed  with  its  own 
burden  of  inactivity  —  no  more  sourness  of  spirit.  Mr. 
Clayton  was  a  live  man  again,  with  all  his  powers  active. 
Under  his  thoughtful  supervision,  seconded  by  gentle 
men  of  wealth  and  active  benevolence,  the  institution 


254  THE    WINE    OF   LIFE. 

grew  rapidly,  and  soon,  from  sheltering  and  training  for 
useful  lives  twenty  little  ones,  gathered  over  one  hun 
dred  within  its  protecting  wralls. 

"  We  owe  much  of  all  this  success  in  our  plans  to 
you,"  said  Mr.  Walker,  one  day,  while  he  sat  with  Mr. 
Clayton  reviewing  the  items  in  an  annual  report.  "  For 
lack  of  one  who  could  give  to  an  asylum  a  daily  super 
intendence,  and  hold  in  charge  its  general  interests,  all 
things  were  inefficient,  and  we  had  even  talked  of  aban 
doning  a  charity  which  it  seemed  impossible  rightly  to 
sustain.  But,  we  found  you  in  the  day  of  our  despon 
dency  ;  and  under  your  diligent  care,  zeal  for  the  cause 
of  humanity  and  self-devotion,  have  been  able  to  effect 
the  ends  which  lay  so  near  to  our  hearts.  What  hu 
man  arithmetic  can  give  us  the  sum  of  good  to  flow 
from  this  successful  effort !  " 

Idler  and  ease-taker  —  man  of  wealth  and  leisure, 
whose  days  drag  heavily  often,  whose  mind  stagnates 
and  breathes  unwholesome  vapors, — idler  and  ease- 
taker,  if,  in  reading  of  Mr.  Clayton,  your  heart  has  not 
responded  with  interest  to  his  action  —  if  your  own 
mind  does  not  feel  a  stimulus  to  like  things  —  say  if  it 
is  not  clear,  that  Mr.  Clayton  was  wiser  and  happier  in 
his  good  work,  though  it  involved  care  and  some  sacri 
fice,  than  in  the  droning  round  of  efforts  to  kill  the  pass 
ing  time  that  marked  his  previous  days  ? 


A    POOR    SERMON,    AND    WHY. 


255 


-/j 


XXVI. 

A   POOR   SERMON,   AND  WHY. 


ORSE  and  worse."  Mr.  Hilton 
spoke  with  ill-concealed  displeas 
ure,  as  he  stepped  from  the  church 
door.  "  I've  never  listened  to 
anything  so  dull  and  disconnected 
?  as  the  sermon  preached  this  morn- 

'    ing-" 

u  Certainly  our   minister    does 
not  improve,"  was  the  discourag 
ing  response. 

u  Improve  !  Goodness  !  I  should  think  not." 
"  He  gave  us  some  excellent  discourses  in  the  begin 
ning  —  the  best,  in  fact,  ever  preached  in  our  church. 
But  for  some  cause,  he's  been  running  down  for  a  year 
past.  In  fact,  he's  not  the  man  he  was.  I  don't  under 
stand  it." 

*r 

"  I  do,  then,"  said  Mr.   Hilton,  the  parishioner  who 


256  A    POOR   SERMON,  AND    WHY. 

had  opened  the  subject  of  complaint.  "  It  lies  just  here 
—  Mr.  Orne  has  preached  himself  out.  He's  evidently 
a  man  of  limited  range,  with  a  few  good  sermons,  the 
utmost  he  can  do.  Having  swept  round  his  narrow 
circle  of  ideas,  he  has  nothing  further  to  give,  and  so 
goes  plodding  and  stumbling  along  the  way  of  prosy 
mediocrity." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  was  answered.  "  But  I  have  read 
Mr.  Orne  differently.  Every  now  and  then,  he  flashes 
up  in  a  way  that  indicates  mental  power  and  originality. 
Even  in  to-day's  sermon,  poor  as  it  was,  I  noticed  many 
choice  things,  but  to  most  hearers  they  were  probably 
lost  through  the  deadness  of  utterance." 

"  They  certainly  were  to  me,"  returned  Mr.  Hilton. 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  be  at  ease  in  his  mind,"  re 
marked  the  other. 

"  I  know  nothing  as  to  that.  If  a  minister,  who  is 
supposed  to  dwell  on  the  mountains  of  spiritual  tranquil- 
ity,  is  not  at  ease  in  his  mind,  who  may  hope  to  be  ?  " 

"  Ministers  are  but  men,  and  of  like  passions  with  the 
people." 

"  They  are  men,  of  course,  and  with  like  passions," 
said  Mr.  Hilton,  "  yet  are  supposed  to  live  above  the 
world,  and  to  hold  their  passions  under  rule.  Men 
who  set  up  to  be  ministers  should  practise  as  well  as 
preach,  and  show,  by  living  example,  the  truth  of  doc- 


A   POOR   SERMON,  AND  WHY.  257 

trine.     They  must  not  only  point  to  Heaven,  but  lead 
the  way." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  was  replied,  "  that,  as  a  general  thing, 
we  are  inclined  to  look  for  too  great  perfection  in  our 
clergymen.  To  demand  the  highest  Christian  graces, 
though,  like  ourselves,  they  are  burdened  with  heredita 
ry  evil,  and  struggling  in  the  bonds  of  temptation.  We 
have  many  excuses  for  our  own  shortcomings,  but  none 
for  theirs." 

"  I  can  accept  no  excuse  for  Mr.  One's  shortcomings 
in  the  pulpit,"  returned  Mr.  Hilton. 

"  He  has  preached  better.  Contrast  his  trial  sermon, 
with  the  stupid  harangues  now  given  ;  could  anything 
be  in  more  painful  contrast  ?  Either  he  has  preached 
himself  out,  or  don't  care  how  his  Sunday  services  are 
performed.  In  either  case  the  fact  is  conclusive  against 
him,  and  marks  his  unfitness  for  this  parish.  We  ought 
to  get  rid  of  him.  He  does  not  suit  us.  He  isn't  the 
man  for  the  place." 

The  two  men  had  arrived  at  a  point  where  their  ways 
diverged,  when  they  stopped  long  enough  for  Mr.  Hil 
ton  to  finish  the  last  brief  sentences,  and  then  separated. 

It  was  true  as  had  been  charged,  that  Mr.  Orne's 
sermon,  on  that  Sabbath  morning,  was  a  very  dull  per 
formance,  and  it  was  true,  also,  that  for  some  time  he 
had  been  growing  duller  and  heavier  in  the  pulpit,  only 


258  A   POOR   SERMON,  AND   WHY. 

flashing  up,  occasionally,  with  his  wonted  fire.  There 
was,  of  course,  a  cause  for  all  this.  Let  us  see  if  we 
can  find  it.  Let  us  look  in  upon  Mr.  Hilton  during  the 
six  days  preceding  the  Sabbath  on  which  he  made  this 
last  unsatisfactory  effort,  and  see  if  light  can  be  found. 

It  was  Monday  morning,  and  there  dwelt  with  Mr. 
Orne.  a  troubled  consciousness  that  his  discourse  on  the 
preceding  day  had  been  sadly  below  its  theme,  and  that 
he  had  neither  watered  his  flock  nor  led  them  into  green 
pastures. 

"  I  must  do  better,"  he  said  to  himself,  with  an  ef 
fort  to  spur  his  mind  into  activity.  "  I  must  shake 
off  this  incubus."  And  he  went  resolutely  to  his  study, 
where,  after  praying  for  light  and  strength,  he  sat  down 
with  his  books  and  memorandums,  and  searched  for  an 
appropriate  theme  on  which  to  write  his  next  discourse. 
But  he  found  it  impossible  to  fix  his  thoughts  on  any 
subject  long  enough  for  a  growth  of  ideas.  Now  he 
considered  this  text  and  pondered  that,  but  his  mind 
seemed  as  if  dwelling  in  a  closely  sealed  chamber,  into 
which  no  light  penetrated.  He  might  think  out  some 
commonplaces,  weak  and  trite,  and  throw  them  into 
dull  sentences.  But  there  had  heen  enough  of  that. 
He  wished  to  do  better. 

At  last  thought  began  to  play,  with  some  activity, 
around  a  certain  passage  of  Scripture.  A  window 


A   POOR  SERMON,  AND   WHY.  259 

seemed  opening  in  his  mind  ;  rays  of  light  streamed 
through,  and  he  had  glimpses  of  azure  sky,  and  a  world 
of  beauty  outside  of  his  prison-house.  Now  his  pulses 
beat  quicker,  and  with  exhilarant  life.  The  old  pleasure 
was  coming  back  into  his  heart.  He  had  passed  to  the 
world  of  ideas.  Already  sentences  of  stately  form,  full 
of  thought,  and  glowing  with  heavenly  ardor,  were  be 
ginning  to  flow  from  his  pen,  when  the  door  of  his 
study  opened  softly,  and  his  wife  came  in.  He  looked 
up  at  the  intruder,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  her  countenance, 
the  windows  of  his  prison-house  closed,  and  all  his  mind 
was  circumscribed  and  in  darkness  as  before,  for  there 
was  trouble  in  her  countenance. 

"  Mr.  Folwell  has  called  again,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
of  discouragement  that  was  infectious. 

Mr.  Orne  experienced  the  sensation  of  a  shock,  fol 
lowed  by  such  a  constriction  of  the  chest  that  respira 
tion  became  difficult. 

"  I  shall  have  to  see  him,  I  suppose."  And  he  shut 
the  portfolio  that  lay  on  his  table,  put  aside  his  pen,  and 
rising,  went  down  stairs,  not  with  a  quick,  elastic  step, 
but  lagging  and  reluctant. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Folwell."  He  tried  to  greet 
his  visitor  cheerfully,  but  the  effort  failed. 

"  Good  morning,"  was  answered  back,  but  in  no  gra 
cious  manner. 


ti'jQ  A   POOR   SERMON,  AND    WHY. 

"  Take  a  chair."     Mr.  Folwell  sat  down. 

"  You've  called  for  that  money."  The  voice  failed  a 
little. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  very  decidedly  spoke  Mr.  Folwell. 

"  Well,  I'm  extremely  sorry."  The  visitor's  "brows 
knitted*  and  his  shut  mouth  grew  harder.  Mr.  Orne 
hesitated  in  his  speech,  faltered,  and  then  kept  on. 
"  But,  indeed,  sir,  it  is  wholly  out  of  my  power  to  set 
tle  your  bill  to-day.  I  expected  to  receive  the  money 
long  before  this,  but  have  been  sadly  disappointed." 

Mr.  Folwell  put  on  a  severe  aspect. 

"  Will  you  fix  a  time  on  which  I  may  certainly  cal 
culate  on  receiving  my  money  ?  " 

The  minister  had  no  resources  beyond  his  small  sala 
ry,  the  last  quarterly  payment  of  which  had  now  been  de 
ferred  over  six  weeks,  during  a  greater  part  of  which 
time  he  had  been  anxiously  awaiting  its  receipt,  in  order 
to  liquidate  certain  bills  contracted  for  supplies  without 
which  his  family  would  have  suffered.  Hurriedly 
weighing  the  chances  of  receiving,  within  a  few  days, 
the  portion  of  salary  due,  and  likewise  determining  to 
see  the  treasurer  and  ask  for  it,  if  not  forthcoming,  a 
thing  he  would  avoid,  if  possible,  Mr.  Orne  made  an 
swer  : 

"  On  Saturdav,  at  the  latest,  vou  shall  be  paid." 

r+ 

"  Very  well,  sir."     Mr.  Folwell  arose,  and  buttoned 


A   POOR   SERMON,  AND   WHY.  261 

his  coat  to  the  last  button  with  cold  deliberation.  "  I 
will  call  on  Saturday."  And  he  bowed  with  a  formal, 
impressive  air,  meant  to  say,  "  Don't  forget  your  prom 
ise,  sir,  for  most  assuredly  I  shall  not." 

The  minister  bowed,  almost  meekly,  in  return,  and  the 
two  men  parted. 

Back  to  his  study  crept  Mr.  Orne,  stooping  as  though 
his  shoulders  were  burdened.  He  sat  down  to  the  table 
again,  opened  his  portfolio,  lifted  his  pen,  and  com 
menced  reading  over  the  few  paragraphs  he  had  written 
on  the  next  Sabbath's  sermon.  Twice,  three  times,  he 
read  them ;  but  the  sentences  conveyed  no  living 
thoughts  to  his  mind.  They  opened  not  the  door  to  a 
world  of  ideas.  He  was  in  darkness  and  obscurity. 
Resolutely  did  he  seek  to  follow  out  one  suggestive 
word  after  another,  recorded  on  the  page  before  him  ; 
but  just  as  he  would  seem  to  be  ascending  into  the  re 
gion  of  light,  the  cares  of  this  world  would  pull  at  his 
garments,  and  drag  him  down  into  obscurity.  He  had 
promised  to  pay  Mr.  Folwell  on  Saturday.  Would  he 
be  able  to  keep  that  promise?  The  intrusion  of  this 
question  acted  like  a  chill  to  his  rising  mental  ardor,  and 
sent  it  shivering  back  into  torpor. 

"  It's  of  no  use  !  I  can't  do  anything  on  my  sermon 
to-day,"  said  the  poor  man,  almost  despairingly,  as 
he  shut  his  portfolio,  and  bowed  his  head  upon  the  ta 
ble. 


262  A   POOR   SERMON,  AND   WHY. 

After  dwelling  for  some  time  on  the  embarrassing  na 
ture  of  his  worldly  affairs — embarrassing  in  part, 
through  inadequacy  of  income  ;  but,  chiefly,  because 
the  payments  on  hi?  salary  were  not  made  promptly 
when  due  —  Mr.  Orne  resolved  to  see  the  treasurer  of 
the  church,  and  advise  him  of  his  pressing  needs.  A 
few  words  will  make  his  case  clear.  On  reaching;  this 

o 

parish,  after  accepting  a  call,  the  expense  of  removal 
had  nearly  exhausted  Mr.  Orne's  slender  purse,  and  as 
no  payment  was  made  to  him  until  the  first  quarter  ex 
pired,  he  was,  at  that  time,  in  debt  for  things  absolutely 
needed  in  his  family  to  amount  of  nearly  half  the  mon 
ey  received.  It  seemed  as  if  he  could  never  make  up 
this  deficiency.  At  the  end  of  every  succeeding  quar 
ter  he  found  himself  in  debt,  and  obliged  to  pay  away 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  slender  income  as  soon  as  re 
ceived.  After  a  year  or  two,  pewholders  and  subscri 
bers  to  the  fund  for  his  support,  gre\r  careless  in  regard 
to  payments,  and  it  often  happened  that  two,  three,  four 
and  even  six  weeks  elapsed,  after  Mr.  Orne's  salary  was 
due,  before  the  money  came  into  his  hands.  Whenever 
this  occurred,  he  would  be  worried  by  calls  for  settle 
ments  not  in  his  power  to  make,  and  often  hurt  by  the 
unfeeling  words  that  disappointed  creditors  are  some 
times  wont  to  speak.  He  was  a  sensitive,  honorable 
man  ;  and  debt  brought  his  mind  into  bondage.  He 


A   POOR   SERMON,  AND    WHY.  263 

could  never  meet  a  person  whom  he  owed,  and  feel  un 
embarrassed.  Since  coming  to  this  charge,  he  had  lost 
a  portion  of  that  manly  freedom  so  dear  to  most  minds, 
and  without  which  no  clergyman  can  do  justice,  in 
preaching,  to  himself  or  congregation.  No  wonder  that 
his  people  felt  the  inadequacy  of  his  ministrations. 

Acting  on  his  purpose  to  see  the  treasurer,  Mr.  Orne 
lost  no  time  in  calling  on  this  individual,  for  he  felt 
that)  having  promised  to  pay  Mr.  Folwell  on  Saturday, 
he  would  not  be  able  to  write  a  line  on  his  sermon  until 
assured  of  having  the  means  to  keep  his  promise. 

"  You've  been  expecting  to  see  me,"  said  the  treasur 
er,  with  a  brief  smile  of  welcome,  as  Mr.  Orne  entered 
his  store.  The  minister  grasped  tightly  the  hand  of  his 
parishioner,  forced  an  answering  smile,  but  did  not  re 
ply  in  words.  The  two  men  walked  to  the  after  part 
of  the  store,  away  from  clerks  and  customers. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say,  there  isn't  a  cent  in  the  treasury 
yet." 

"  Mr.  Orne  tried  not  to  betray  any  disappointment  — 
tried  to  feel  calm  —  tri«d  to  bear  up  bravely. 

"  Will  you  receive  anything  during  the  week  ?  "  he 
asked,  in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  It  is  uncertain.  I  can't  very  well  dun  the  people, 
you  know." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  you  do  that,"  said  Mr.  Orne,  hard 
ly  knowing  what  he  replied. 


264  A    POOR    SERMON,  AND    WHY. 

"  Two  or  three  of  our  subscribers  are  considerably  in 
arrears,"  remarked  the  treasurer,  "  and  it's  mostly  their 
fault  that  we're  behind  with  your  salary.  There's  Mr. 
Hilton,  for  instance,  who  hasn't  paid  in  one  cent  for 
more  than  a  year  —  and  he's  well  off —  if  he,  and  some 
others  just  like  him,  would  make  their  accounts  square, 
like  Christian  men,  I  could  pay  you  promptly  at  the 
end  of  each  quarter.  It's  all  wrong.  But,  what  are 
we  to  do  with  such  people,  Mr.  Orne  ?  I  wish  you'd 
show  them  up  in  a  sermon." 

"  I've  promised  a  bill  of  twenty-five  dollars  on  Satur 
day,"  said  the  minister,  going  to  the  heart  of  the  mat 
ter.  "  Try  and  get  me  that  sum,  if  possible.  A  minis 
ter,  above  all  other  men,  should  keep  his  engagements, 
for,  if  he  does  not,  how  can  he  preach  of  justice  and 
judgment  to  any  good  purpose  ?  " 

"  If  the  money  comes  in,  Mr.  Orne,  you  shall  certain 
ly  have  it ;  but  don't  depend,  too  entirely,  on  receiving 
it  from  me." 

"  If  the  money  comes  in !  Was  that  an  assurance 
strong  enough  to  tranquilize  the  clergyman's  mind  ? 
Could  he  return  home,  and  get  up  a  fine  sermon  for  the 
next  Sabbath  on  so  vague  a  promise  of  the  means  for 
paying  Mr.  Fol well's  debt  on  Saturday  ?  There  are 
men,  who  could  have  pushed  even  as  disturbing  an  ele 
ment  as  this  aside,  and  risen  above  its  influence  into 


A    POOR   SERMON,  AND    WHY.  265 

the  regions  of  pure  thought,  hut  Mr.  Orne  was  not  of 
this  numher.  He  did  not  even  look  at  texts,  skeleton 
sermons,  or  memorandums  of  subjects  again  that  day. 

Men  of  a  highly  sensitive  organization,  are  apt,  when 
anything  troubles  them,  to  brood  over  it  on  going  to 
bed  at  night,  and  in  a  half  sleeping  half  waking  state, 
lie  for  hours  suffering  a  kind  of  mental  torture  that  ex 
haust  both  mind  and  body.  Such  a  night  succeeded  to 
this  unsatisfactory  Monday,  and  Mr.  Orne  wrestled  with 
haunting  shadows  through  all  its  lonely  watches.  A 
dull  pain  over  his  left  eye,  as  he  arose  un refreshed  from 
his  pillow  on  the  next  morning,  gave  warning  of  a  lost 
day  —  and  not  only  of  a  lost  day,  but  of  one  doomed  to 
intense  suffering  from  nervous  headache,  which  did  not 
leave  him  until  after  succeeding  midnight. 

The  day  following  one  of  these  paroxysms  of  head 
ache  was  always  a  day  of  exhaustion,  in  which  rest  and 
quiet  were  essential ;  and  so  Wednesday  passed  without 
the  first  line  being  written  on  his  sermon.  On  Thurs 
day,  a  funeral  at  eleven  o'clock,  five  miles  away,  con 
sumed  his  morning,  and  also  his  afternoon  until  three 
o'clock,  when  he  arrived  at  home  in  no  condition  to 
think  or  write  with  any  degree  of  clearness  or  vigor. 

On  Friday,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  energy,  the 
minister  sat  down  in  his  study,  and  endeavored  to  throw 
his  mind  into  a  discourse,  the  subject  of  which  had  been 
12 


266  A   POOR  SERMON,  AND    WHY. 

chosen  as  he  lay  in  the  calm  moments  that  follow  sleep 
when  thought  awakes  with  morning.  But  he  had  not 
written  long,  with  conscious  feebleness,  before  his  mind 
perversely  wandered  aside,  and  imagination  began  to 
picture  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Folwell,  on  the  next 
morning. 

"  I  must  have  this  settled  first,"  he  said,  at  length, 
pushing  his  manuscript  aside.  "  Under  such  a  weight 
of  doubt  and  uncertainty  it  is  impossible  to  think  clear 
ly."  And  Mr.  Orne  took  his  hat  and  walked  down  to 
see  the  treasurer.  On  seeing  him  approach,  the  treas 
urer  looked  sober,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Nothing  in  the  treasury  yet  ?  "  Mr.  Orne  forced 
a  smile  to  his  lips,  and  tried  to  look  composed. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  treasurer. 

"  Any  prospect  for  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  not.  Yesterday  I  saw  Mr.  Hilton,  and 
asked  him  outright  for  his  subscription.  He  was  half 
offended,  and  said  he  had  other  use  for  his  money  just 
now." 

"  I'm  sorry." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  the  treasurer. 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  promised  Mr. 
Folwell  that  he  should  have  his  money  to-morrow,  and 
he'll  be  sure  to  call." 

"It's  too  bad,"  said  the  treasurer,  fretfully.     "If 


267 


subscribers  and  pewholders  are  not  more  prompt  in  pay 
ing  up  their  dues,  I  shall  resign  my  office.  I'm  willing 
to  keep  the  accounts,  and  disburse  all  moneys  that  come 
into  my  hands ;  but  I  can't  act  the  part  of  a  collector, 
and  go  about  hunting  up  delinquents." 

Mr.  Orne  lingered  for  a  little  while,  vainly  hoping 
that  the  treasurer  would  offer  to  advance  the  sum  need 
ed  to  make  his  promise  good,  and  then  went  despondent 
ly  home  again.  For  an  hour  he  wrote  on  his  sermon, 
conscious  all  the  while  of  giving  forth  common-place 
truths,  in  which  dwelt  no  sympathetic  life.  Then  anx 
ious  care  obstructed  all  influx  of  ideas,  and  he  arose 
and  walked  the  floor  of  his  study  pondering  the  mor 
row's  trouble. 

"  I  must  keep  my  promise,"  he  said,  bitterly,  almost 
hopelessly.  And  so  he  went  out  to  see  if  he  could  not 
borrow  the  sum  needed.  Now  there  were  many  of  his 
parishioners  who  were  able  enough  to  lend,  and  many 
both  able  and  willing.  But  to  none  of  these  did  he  feel 
free  to  go.  So  he  applied  to  a  single  individual,  who, 
however  willing,  was  not  able  to  lend  him  twenty-five 
dollars.  This  failure,  on  his  first  essay  at  borrowing, 
sent  him  home  mortified  and  discouraged,  and  to  com 
pelled  work  on  the  discourse  that  must  be  ready  for  the 
next  Sabbath.  Night  came,  and  it  not  one  third  done. 

Saturday  morning  found  the  unhappy  minister  wholly 


268  A   POOR   SERMON,  AND    WHY. 

unprepared  to  meet  his  surely  coming  creditor.  He 
went  to  his  study  after  breakfast,  but  not  to  write  on 
his  sermon.  That  was  impossible.  He  was  walking 
the  floor  when  his  wife  came  in  and  said : 

"  Mr.  Folwell  is  down  stairs." 

Sadly  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  Mr.  Orne  left  the  room. 

"  I  am  hurt  and  grieved,  Mr.  Folwell  —  " 

A  flush  of  angry  impatience  burned  in  the  man's 
countenance. 

"  I  am  hurt  and  grieved,  sir ;  but  I  am  still  without 
a  single  dollar  through  which  to  make  good  even  a  part 
of  my  promise,"  said  the  minister,  helplessly. 

Mr.  Folwell  tossed  his  head,  and  drew  himself  up  in 
a  superior  way,  remarking : 

"  A  promise  should  always  be  kept.  At  least,  so  we 
men  of  the  world  think." 

His  tone  was  cutting.  Mr.  Orne  shivered  internally. 
He  felt  humiliated  in  person  and  in  office. 

"  You  said  I  should  have  the  money  to-day,"  added 
the  creditor,  taking  a  cruel  pleasure  in  hurting  the  poor 
sufferer,  who  stood  helpless  and  in  shame  before  him. 
*4 1  believed  you  on  the  word  of  a  minister.  And  now 
you  tell  me  that  I  can't  have  it.  We  men  of  the  world 
hold  our  promise  more  sacred,  but  maybe  we  have  too 
nice  a  sense  of  honor." 


269 


Mr.  Orne  did  not  answer.  He  was  hurt  too  keenly 
by  these  thrusts. 

"  When  shall  I  call  again  ?  "  There  was  irony  in 
Mr.  FolwelPs  tones. 

"  I  cannot  fix  another  day,"  answered  the  minister, 
speaking  without  any  sign  of  resentment.  "  When  I 
receive  the  amount,  I  will  bring  it  to  you  within  half 
an  hour  after  it  comes  into  my  hands." 

"  The  parish  owes  you." 

"  Yes.  I  would  have  starved  rather  than  take  your 
goods  without  a  prospect  of  paying  for  them.  I  saw 
our  treasurer  yesterday,  and  expected  to  receive  from 
him  the  sum  needed  to  make  good  my  promise.  He 
had  no  funds.  What  am  I  to  do  ?  " 

"  Preach  to  your  people  on  common  honesty  !  " 

Mr.  Folwell  flung  the  sentence  rudely  into  Mr.  Orne's 
face,  and  then,  as  he  turned  away,  said,  in  almost  a 
sneering  voice  : 

"  Good  morning  !  " 

All  the  rest  of  that  day,  and  until  after  eleven  o'clock 
at  night,  the  unhappy  minister  wrought  at  his  sermon, 
wearily  and  without  heart ;  and  on  the  next  morn 
ing  preached  it  in  a  dull,  cold  way  to  an  unresponsive 
audience,  some  of  whom  were  growing  tired  of  his  poor 
performances,  and  beginning  to  think,  as  we  have  seen, 
that  he  was  not  the  man  for  the  place.  And  he  was 


270  A   POOR   SERMON,  AND   WHY. 

not.  The  people  of  that  parish,  too  many  of  whom 
were  of  the  Mr.  Hilton  type,  needed  a  man  of  differ 
ent  mettle.  One  who,  taking  the  text  given  by  Mr. 
Folwell,  would  have  startled  their  consciences  by  a  ser 
mon  on  common  honesty. 

There  are  a  great  many  parishes  in  which  the  minis 
ter,  like  Mr.  Orne,  seems  to  have  preached  himself  out, 
having  lost  vitality,  range  of  thought,  beauty  and 
strength  ;  and  grown  dull,  self-absorbed,  and  almost  in 
different,  who  goes  plodding  and  stumbling  along  the 
way  of  prosy  mediocrity.  Take  a  hint  my  friend,  if 
you  belong  to  one  of  these  parishes,  from  the  case  of 
Mr.  Orne,  and  look  a  little  more  closely  than  you 
have  done  into  the  pecuniary  condition  of  your  min 
ister  ;  and  if  you  are  of  the  Mr.  Hilton  type,  in  the 
name  of  religion  and  humanity,  pay  up  your  subscrip 
tion  before  finding  fault  with  his  preaching !  Ministers 
are  but  men,  and  if  you  lay  upon  them  anxious  cares 
for  food,  and  raiment,  and  humiliations  in  the  face  of 
those  who  may  take  pleasure  in  wounding  them,  how 
are  they,  thus  weighted,  to  be  swift  and  strong  ? 


OLD   GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER. 


271 


XXVII. 

OLD  GRIFFIN,  THE  USURER. 


HERE  was  one  thing  that  old  Griffin, 
the  usurer,  loved  better  than  money  — 
one  thing,  and  one  only  —  his  daugh 
ter.  She  was  not  beautiful,  either  in 
form  or  features.  Through  neglect  in 
childhood,  she  had  contracted  a  dis 
ease  of  the  spine,  which  left  a  sad 
curvature.  This  obstructed  free  ner 
vous  action,  and  so  the  whole  physical  life  became 
dwarfed.  Her  face  was  weasoned,  and  her  form  diminu 
tive.  She  stooped  forward,  bending  to  the  right ;  and 
one  shoulder  stood  above  the  other.  Of  course,  her 
movements  were  ungraceful. 

For  all  this,  everybody  that  knew  Katy  Griffin  loved 
her.  The  sweetness  of  her  temper,  the  kindness  of  her 
heart,  the  good  will  shown  in  benefits  where  it  was  fit- 


272  OLD    tiRIFFIN,  THE   USURER. 

ting  to  bestow  them  —  all  these  gave  the  impression  of 
a  soul  that  lived  nearer  to  heaven  than  to  earth. 

One  day,  the  angels  lifted  this  beautiful  soul  out  of 
its  deformed  earthly  body,  and  bore  it,  clothed  in  an  im- 
mor^aj  body  of  spiritual  substance  like  their  own,  up 
wards  into  heaven.  There  had  been  only  slight  warn 
ing  of  the  change.  Katy  had  drooped  a  little,  but  with 
out  complaining.  Then  she  went  to  sleep,  like  a  tired 
child,  and  the  heart  of  the  hard  old  man,  her  father  — 
hard  to  the  world,  but  soft  to  his  child  —  was  stricken 
with  a  sorrow  beyond  the  power  of  healing. 

The  long  cherished  greed  of  money,  which  had  grown 
into  second  nature,  was  not  diminished  by  this  event. 
Pain  seemed  to  stimulate  instead  of  weakening  the  pas 
sion.  Did  Griffin  exacted  from  the  weak  and  necessi 
tous  who  came  to  him  in  their  extremity,  the  largest 
discounts  to  which  they  would  submit ;  often  taking 
from  poor  men,  forced  by  present  needs  to  sell  the  notes 
of  hand  received  in  payment  for  work,  at  the  rate  of 
thirty,  forty,  or  fifty  per  cent,  per  annum !  All  day 
long  he  sat  in  his  office,  like  a  great  bloated  spider,  wait 
ing  for  the  flies  that  were  sure  to  be  entangled  in  his 
web  ;  then  he  went  back  to  his  home,  from  which  the 
light  had  gone  out,  and  sat  there  in  darkness  and  grief. 

With  the  money  taken  by  the  old  usurer  from  needy 
merchants,  manufacturers  and  mechanics,  he  built  a 


THE    USURER.  273 

splendid  monument  over  the  graye  of  his  child.  With 
in  the  massive  iron  railing  that  enclosed  this  monument, 
seats  were  placed ;  late  in  the  afternoon,  after  the  day's 
business  was  over,  you  would  find  old  Mr.  Griffin,  when 
the  air  was  warm  and  the  sky  clear.  Choicest  flowers 
bloomed  around  the  monument. 

"  She  loved  flowers."  This  was  his  answer  to  a 
stranger  who,  seeing  him  in  the  little  enclosure  one  day, 
entered  and  stood  by  his  side,  saying,  as  the  old  man 
looked  up : 

"  These  flowers  are  very  beautiful." 

"  She  loved  flowers." 

"  Your  daughter,"  responded  the  stranger. 

"  Yes.     She  was  never  without  them." 

"  You  loved  her  very  much,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  Loved  her !  "  said  the  old  man.  "  Love  seems  too 
common  a  word  to  express  my  feelings.  Our  language 
wants  a  new  term." 

"  Everybody  loved  her,"  returned  the  stranger. 

"  Did  you  know  her  ?  "  Mr.  Griffin  looked  up  at  his 
companion  curiously. 

"  I  know  those  who  both  knew  and  loved  her.  A 
few  times  she  has  come  in  my  way,  and  I  felt  her  sphere 
like  that  of  some  blessed  one." 

"  O,  sir,  she  was  an  angel  on  the  earth  !  "     The  old 
man  spoke  with  a  tremor  of  enthusiasm. 
12* 


274  OLD,    GRIFFIN,    THE   USURER. 

"  And  is  now  an  angel  in  heaven." 

"  I  believe  it,  sir.  O,  yes  —  I  believe  that.  If  she 
is  not  with  the  angels,  and  herself  an  angel,  who  shall 
hope  to  enter  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven  ?  " 

44  Which  is  a  kingdom  of  love  and  use,"  said  the 
stranger. 

*'  I  don't  know,"  replied  Griffin,  a  dull  shadow  falling 
on  his  face  —  "  I'm  no  theologian,  and  don't  pretend  to 
understand  their  phraseology.  The  talk  of  your  pious 
people  is  generally  Greek  to  me." 

"  Did  Katy  love  herself?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  She  was  the  most  unselfish  being  I  ever  knew," 
promptly  answered  the  father,  with  a  flush  of  pride  in 
his  face. 

"  Always  doing  good,  as  she  had  opportunity." 

"  Yes,  always." 

"  Do  you  think  she  comes  to  you  often,  now  that  she 
has  laid  off  her  earthly  vesture  ?  " 

46 1  am  sure  of  it,"  was  answered.  "  Though  my 
bodily  eyes  may  be  too  dull  to  see  her,  yet  love  tells  me 
that  she  is  near." 

"  And  she  looks  into  your  heart  —  knows  what  you 
feel  and  think  —  sees,  by  her  more  interior  vision,  away 
down  into  the  secret  places  of  your  life." 

Old  Griffin's  countenance  changed.  It  became  more 
thoughtful,  and  just  a  little  troubled. 


OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER.  275 

"  In  coming  near  to  you  now,  she  sees  past  all  out 
ward  things.  No  feeling,  no  purpose,  no  quality  of 
mind  is  hidden,"  continued  the  stranger.  "  Have  yon 
thought  of  this  ?  " 

The  old  man's  head  drooped  upon  his  breast.  His 
eyes  rested  on  the  ground.  He  made  no  answer. 

"  Let  me  relate  to  you  a  little  incident,"  said  the 
stranger.  The  old  usurer  raised  his  head. 

"  A  poor,  honest,  hard-working  mechanic  had  a  sick 
child,  whom  he  loved  very  much.  Your  child  was  no 
dearer  to  you  than  his  child  was  to  him.  This  poor  me 
chanic  had  other  children,  and  it  taxed  all  his  efforts, 
and  took  all  his  earnings  to  buy  them  plain  food  and 
clothing.  The  sick  child  needed  many  things  not  in 
the  father's  power  to  give.  She  needed  to  be  taken  out 
into  the  pure  air — to  have  change,  and  cordials,  and 
luxuries  his  slender  purse  might  not  afford. 

"  I  met  your  angel-minded  daughter  in  the  chamber 
of  this  sick  child,  one  day.  She  had  brought  some  del 
icacies  to  tempt  her  appetite,  and  a  bunch  of  flowers  to 
refresh  her  senses.  '  On  Saturday,'  said  the  child, 
warmth  coming  into  her  wan  face,  '  father  is  going  with 
me  to  the  sea-shore.  The  doctor  says  it  will  do  me  so 
much  good.  Father  will  take  me  down,  and  leave  me 
there  for  a  week.  I  shall  be  so  happy  !  I  never  saw 
the  sea.  How  grand  it  must  look.' 


276  OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER. 

"  My  heart  went  with  the  child  in  her  journey  to  the 
sea-shore.  I  knew  that  both  body  and  mind  would  re 
ceive  a  healthy  influence.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  pleasure  that  shone  in  your  Katy's  face,  as  she  saw 
the  joy  of  this  poor  sick  child.  '  I'm  so  glad  you  are 
going,'  she  said,  taking  her  little  hand.  4  When  you 
come  back  I  will  see  you,  and  you  must  tell  me  all 
about  the  grand  old  ocean.' 

"  Well,  sir,  Saturday  came,  but  the  sick  child  did  not 
see  the  ocean,  nor  get  health  from  its  cool  and  stimula 
ting  breezes.  Why  ?  Let  me  tell  you.  Her  father,  as 
I  have  said,  was  a  poor  man,  who  toiled  hard  for  his 
money.  It  so  happened,  that  he  was  doing  work  for  a 
person  who  promised  him  pay  as  soon  as  the  job  was 
completed.  He  had  to  buy  material  with  which  to  do 
the  work,  and  for  which  he  was  to  settle  on  receiving 
payment.  The  work  amounted  to  little  over  seventy 
dollars,  and  the  cost  of  the  material  was  thirty-five. 
When  the  job  was  done,  instead  of  receiving  cash,  as  he 
had  expected,  the  poor  mechanic  could  only  get  a  note 
of  hand  payable  in  four  months.  This  would  not  have 
been  a  serious  inconvenience,  or  loss,  if  the  money  could 
have  been  obtained  thereon  at  legal  interest ;  but  there 
was  no  person  known  to  the  mechanic  who  would  dis 
count  the  note  at  any  fair  rate.  The  promise  to  the  sick 
child*was  made  in  expectation  of  receiving  this  money 
when  the  work  was  done. 


OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE    USURER.  277 

"  Well,  sir  !  The  poor  mechanic  brought  this  note 
of  hand  to  you.  It  was  for  seventy  dollars,  bear  in 
mind.  Common  interest  for  the  four  months  it  had  to 
run  would  be  about  one  dollar  and  a  half,  counting  in 
the  grace  days  ;  but  you  cut  off  twenty  dollars.  '  I'll 
give  fifty  or  nothing,'  you  said  to  the  poor  man.  '  The 
maker  hardly  ever  pays  his  notes.  Ten  chances  to  one 
.  but  I  lose  by  it  in  the  end.  In  fact,  I'd  rather  not  have 
his  paper.'  And  yet  you  were  buying  the  same  man's 
paper  every  day,  and  considered  it  good. 

"  Only  fifteen  dollars  of  profit  was  left  to  the  poor 
man  for  two  weeks  of  hard  work.  You  took  the  rest  I 
Of  course,  the  sick,  failing,  longing  child  did  not  get  the 
sea  breezes.  No  —  no.  And  she  died  a  month  later. 
I  saw  Katy  standing,  with  tear  filled  eyes,  looking  upon 
the  pale  corpse.  She  had  brought  flowers  to  lay  in  the 
coffin.  Of  course,  she  knew  nothing  of  your  part  in 
the  tragedy.  The  grieving  father  would  not  wound 
her  tender  heart  by  even  a  hint  at  the  miserable  truth. 

"  But  things  are  different  now,"  continued  the  stran 
ger.  "  Katy's  inner  eyes  are  opened.  She  does  not 
come  to  you  in  the  outside  world  of  veils  and  shadow 
ing  curtains  of  flesh  ;  but  as  soul  comes  to  soul  —  spirit 
to  spirit.  If  there  is  subterfuge  in  your  mind,  she  sees 
it.  If  hard,  grasping  selfishness,  that  would  take  from 
a  sick  and  dying  child  the  very  breath  of  life  and  coin 


278 


it  into  gold  —  she  sees  that  also.  Can  she  love  these  ? 
Nay,  can  she  love  him  who  admits  and  cherishes  them  ? 
Ah,  sir  !  If  you  would  have  this  heavenly-minded  child 
near  you,  you  must  love  what  she  loves.  If  you  would 
go  to  her  when  you  die,  you  must  set  your  heart  on 
higher  and  purer  things  than  treasure  that  moth  cor 
rupts." 

The  old  man  was  stunned.  He  sat,  with  eyes  cast 
down,  still  and  statue-like.  When  he  lifted  his  eyes, 
the  stranger  was  not  near.  He  had  departed,  with 
noiseless  steps. 

Next  day  a  poor  man  came  to  the  usurer.  He  had  a 
note  of  sixty  dollars. 

"  How  much  shall  I  take  ?  "  said  the  usurer  to  him 
self,  as  he  looked  greedily  at  the  signature.  It  was  on 
his  lip  to  offer  the  poor  man  forty-five  dollars  for  the 
note.  But,  a  thought  of  Katy  kept  the  sentence  back. 
She  seemed  to  be  standing  close  beside  him,  observing 
all  that  he  was  thinking  and  doing. 

"  This  is  for  work,"  he  said  to  the  man,  speaking,  as 
he  felt,  to  two  auditors  —  one  visible  and  the  other  in 
visible. 

"  Yes,  sir.     It  is  for  work." 

"  All  for  labor  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     At  least  half  for  material." 

"  Was  there  a  good  profit  on  the  work  ?  " 


OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER.  279 

<{  No,  sir.     It  hardly  paid  for  day-labor." 

"  Ah  !  Is  that  so  ?  "  The  usurer  sat  in  a  thought 
ful  way,  holding  the  little  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand. 
More  palpably  present  seemed  Katy.  "  Is  that  so  ?  " 
he  repeated.  "  Then  the  case  is  slightly  altered.  You 
can't  afford  much  discount." 

-"  Every  dollar  taken  from  that  note,"  said  the  poor 
man,  "  is  so  much  lost  from  my  hard  earnings  ;  so  much 
bread  taken  from  my  children." 

A  brief  struggle  took  place  in  the  usurer's  mind ; 
then  he  filled  up  a  check  for  fifty-eight  dollars  and  sixty- 
three  cents. 

"  I've  charged  only  common  interest,"  he  said,  as  he 
gave  the  check. 

"  It  is  very  kind  in  you,  sir,  very  kind  !  "  answered 
the  poor  man  with  feeling.  "  They  said  you'd  take 
the  hide  off ;  but  I  knew  it  wasn't  in  the  heart  of  one 
so  full  of  riches  as  you  are  to  rob  a  poor  man's  children. 
I'll  put  such  slander  back  into  the  teeth  of  any  one  who 
utters  it  again  in  my  presence."  And  the  man  went 
out. 

"  Was  that  right,  Katy  ?  "  Almost  aloud  the  old 
man  said  this,  as  if  Katy  were  in  bodily  presence  beside 
him.  He  felt  the  warmth  of  her  approving  smile  —  the 
sweetness  of  a  new  emotion,  born  of  an  act  which  had 
in  it  the  germ  of  a  higher  and  nobler  life.  Never  be- 


280 

fore  had  he  denied  the  lust  of  gain  ;  never  before  con 
ceded,  except  to  his  child,  anything  for  another's  good. 

In  all  that  day's  business  there  was  conflict.  Greed' 
of  gold  prompted  to  the  usual  exactions  ;  but  the  ever- 
recurring  thought  of  Katy,  with  the  impression  of  her 
nearness,  held  him  away  from  extortion,  when  the  weak 
and  needy  came  to  him.  On  large  commercial  paper 
there  were  current  u  street  rates  "  of  discount,  which, 
though  usurious,  he  made  without  scruple.  But  when 
the  artisan  and  the  small  manufacturer  came,  with  their 
sober  faces  and  small  notes,  the  conscious  presence  of 
Katy  restrained  him.  He  dared  not  rob  them  as  of  old, 
lest  the  pure  spirit  he  so  loved  should  see  it  and  depart 
from  him. 

And  in  the  days  that  followed  he  could  not  go  back 
to  the  old  hard  ways  of  grinding  the  needy  whenever 
they  were  forced,  through  necessity,  to  seek  his  aid. 
Always  the  hand  of  Katy  seemed  on  his  hand,  holding 
it  back  from  cruel  greed  ;  always  she  seemed  close  by 
his  side,  observing  his  acts,  and  looking  down  into  his 
heart.  In  time,  new  thoughts  stirred,  and  new  ques 
tions  arose,  in  his  mind.  Glimpses  of  things  higher 
than  the  mere  sensual  and  corporeal  were  given  to  his 
unsealing  eyes.  He  began  to  have  a  dim  perception  of 
the  truth,  that  gold  was  not  a  satisfying  element.  That 
the  more  he  gained  the  more  he  coveted. 


OLD   GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER.  281 

One  day,  when  the  old  passion  for  gain  was  strong 
upon  him,  he  lost  his  usual  sense  of  Katy's  presence, 
and  robbed  a  poor  man,  in  pressing  necessity,  of  twenty- 
five  dollars  —  that  being  the  excess  of  discount  over 
what  was  legal  on  a  note  of  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
eight  dollars.  Scarcely  had  the  man,  with  a  sad,  dis 
couraged  face,  gone  out  from  his  office,  when  he  became 
distinctly  conscious  that  Katy  was  by  his  side.  She  had 
seen  it  all !  This  was  the  thought  that  flashed  into  his 
mind.  Very  still,  he  sat,  oppressed  with  a  feeling  of 
guilt  and  shame.  He  had  done  this  mean  and  selfish 
thing.  Had  taken  the  poor  man's  hard-earned  profits, 
and  added  them  to  his  bursting  coffers ;  and  angel-Katy 
had  seen  it  all ! 

Pain  and  repentance  were  in  his  heart.  Not  so  much 
for  the  act  as  for  the  dreaded  consequences.  Would 
not  Katy  go  away  from  him  in  sorrow ;  because  he  was 
base,  sordid  and  cruel  ? 

"  I  will  end  all  this  !  "  he  said,  in  a  passion  of  fear, 
lest  he  should  lose  his  child.  "  Dear  Katy  !  do  not 
leave  me  —  do  not  go  away.  It  was  wrong  —  all 
wrong.  I  didn't  reflect.  It  was  the  old  bad  way  ;  but 
I  will  not  go  in  it  any  more." 

So  he  talked,  almost  crying,  in  a  weak,  quivering, 
half  childish  manner,  wringing  his  hands. 

"  I  will  send  him  the  twenty-five  dollars.     He  shall 


282  OLD   GRIFFIN,    THE   USURER. 

have  it  all  back  again."  He  went  on  talking  aloud. 
And  he  opened  his  check  book,  filled  up  a  check  for  the 
sum  mentioned,  and  enclosing  it  in  an  envelope,  wrote 
upon  it  the  man's  address. 

"Here,"  he  said* with  a  deep  sigh  of  relief.  "I've 
made  restitution."  And  the  old  man  felt  easier  in  mind 
after  that.  Katy,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  drew  closer.  He 
almost  felt  her  breath  on  his  cheek  —  her  light  arms 
twining  about  his  neck. 

"  Lay  up  treasure  in  heaven."  Was  that  her  voice  ? 
How  palpably  it  struck  on  the  sense  of  hearing,  as  if  it 
had  come  by  an  outer  instead  of  by  an  inner  way.  The 
old  man  started,  half  turning.  What  a  flood  of  new 
and  better  thoughts  came  rushing  into  his  mind. 

"  Gold  perisheth  in  the  using ;  but  good  abides  for 
ever.  Every  good  deed  is  a  coin  laid  up  in  the  treasury 
of  heaven." 

Somewhere,  he  had  heard  or  read  these  sentences, 
and  they  had  fixed  themselves  in  memory.  Now,  the 
dust  of  years  was  swept  off  by  some  angel-hand,  and 
he  saw  them  as  distinctly  as  if  they  were  but  just  re 
corded. 

So  the  work  was  going  on  in  old  Griffin's  mind. 
Slowly  —  with  small  promise  at  the  beginning  —  under 
many  hindrances  and  obstructions.  But,  after  awhile 
a  small  channel  for  a  new  life-current  was  cut  into  the 


OLD    GRIFFIN,  THE   USURER.  283 

hard  rock  of  nature  and  habit,  and  a  healthy  stream  be 
gan  to  flow  therein  with  a  perceptible  current.  At  last 
the  usurer  gave  up  his  calling.  He  said,  "  I  have 
enough."  Then  there  was  a  pause.  His  life  seemed  to 
stand  still.  There  was  an  aching  void  in  his  heart. 
But,  in  a  small  silver  thread,  the  new  current  flowed  on, 
and  there  was  a  gradual  deepening  and  widening  of  its 
channel. 

Then  his  gold  began  to  be  a  burden.  He  must  use  it 
in  some  way.  He  felt  this  impulse  growing  stronger 
and  stronger.  Katy's  presence  was  still  a  palpable 
thing.  He  never  lost  the  thought  of  her.  What  will 
she  think  ?  How  will  it  appear  in  her  eyes  ?  Will  she 
love  me  better  for  this  ?  So,  ever  to  the  lost  but  pre 
sent  one,  he  kept  turning  and  turning ;  and  this  thought 
of  her  gradually  led  him,  after  ceasing  in  what  was 
wrong,  to  the  doing  of  good  deeds. 

Twenty  years  after  Katy's  death,  the  old  man  died. 
Many  wet  eyes  saw  him  coffined;  and  many  voices, 
burdened  with  feeling,  were  lifted  in  blessings  on  his 
name.  The  spirit  of  his  departed  child  had  led  his  feet 
heavenward,  and  we  may  have  faith  that,  standing  on 
the  threshold  of  the  city  of  God,  the  pearly  gate 
opened,  and  he  passed  in  to  dwell  in  safety  forever 


284  A   SPUR   IN    THE   SIDE. 


XXVIII. 

A  SPUR  IN  THE  SIDE. 

HERE  are  men  in  whose  side  the  spur 
has  to  be  driven.  Without  it,  they 
would  never  reach  to  half  their  possi 
ble  speed  ;  never  accomplish  anything 
worthy  of  their  powers.  Some  men, 
like  spirited  horses,  move  freely  to  their 
work,  under  the  impulse  of  an  ever 
active  will,  while  others  suffer  from  the 
inertia  of  a  sluggish  temperament. 
There  may  be  as  much  actual  force  in  the  latter  as  in 
the  former,  but  the  spur  must  be  felt  ere  the  sleeping 
energies  will  arouse  themselves. 

It  is  a  sad  necessity,  this,  for  having  a  spur  thrust 
into  the  side,  but  there  are  a  great  many  of  us  to  whom 
the  world  is  indebted  for  a  respectable  amount  of  useful 
work,  who  would  have  accomplished  very  little  if  we 
had  not  felt  the  spur.  People  who  look  at  our  hurt 


A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE.  285 

sides  pity  us,  and  think  the  case  hard  —  often  say,  that 
the  world  treats  us  with  injustice ;  gets  from  us  more 
than  it  gives.  But  He  that  considereth  the  sparrows, 
knoweth  what  is  best.  The  smart  is  only  for  a  season  ; 
but  in  the  work  done  and  the  distance  accomplished, 
there  is  a  delight  that  overpays  all. 

My  excellent  friend,  Mr.  Garland,  Rector  of  St. 

P 's,  presents  a  notable  instance  in  point.  He 

has  what  is  known  to  be  a  poor  parish.  The  salary  is 
light,  and  the  pay  irregular  as  to  times  and  amounts. 
Mr.  Garland's  family  consists  of  seven  members  —  him 
self,  wife,  four  little  children,  and  a  domestic.  This  is 
the  regular  establishment  for  which  provision  has  to  be 
made.  It  rarely  happens,  however,  that  a  month  goes 
by  without  the  addition  of  visitors  from  a  distance  — 
"  Comers  and  stayers,"  as  the  old  lady  calls  them,  who 
take  possession  of  the  "  best  room,"  and  sojourn  pleas 
antly  with  the  pastor  and  his  family  for  indefinite  peri 
ods,  shorter  or  longer,  as  inclination  or  convenience 
prompts.  The  visiting  element  in  my  friend  Mr.  Gar 
land's  family,  may  be  fairly  set  down  as  equal  to  the 
permanent  addition  of  one  member ;  so  that  he  has 
eight  mouths  to  feed. 

Now,  it  so  happens,  that  Mr.  Garland  is  not  gifted 
with  economic  intuitions.  It  is  often  said  of  him  that 
"  he  doesn't  know  the  use  of  money."  "  That  may  be," 


286  A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE. 

he  remarked,  good  humoredly,  when  the  saying  was  re 
peated  to  him,  "  because  I  see  so  little  of  it."  It  is 
true,  however,  that  in  the  careful  use  of  money  his  ed 
ucation  is  defective.  Were  his  salary  doubled,  I  ques 
tion  whether  he  would  be  any  better  off  at  the  year's 
end  than  he  is  now. 

A  very  uncomfortable  life  is  that  of  the  Rector,  in 
many  of  its  features,  as  you  can  imagine,  and  yet,  it  has 
its  compensations  and  enjoyments,  even  under  circum 
stances  of  discipline  that  some  men  would  call  purgato 
rial.  In  the  matter  of  sermonizing,  he  is  very  unequal, 
sometimes  he  will  drone  along 'in  a  discussion  that  is 
pointless  and  lifeless,  and  sometimes  he  will  send  elec 
tric  thrills  of  thought  and  emotion  through  his  congre 
gation,  and  seem  like  one  inspired. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  he  is  dull,"  said  a  friend  of  the 
pastor's,  in  answer  to  a  complaining  member,  as  they 
walked  home  from  church  on  one  of  the  stupid  Sundays, 
as  they  were  sometimes  called.  "  The  only  wonder  is 
that  he  can  preach  at  all.  Give  him  a  better  salary, 
and  set  him  free  from  the  perpetual  dilnnings  of  butch 
ers  and  grocers,  and  he'll  preach  for  you  as  well  as  the 
next.  Can  a  man  think  and  write  with  a  dozen  unpaid 
bills  lying  on  the  table  before  him  ?  I  trow  not." 

The  complaining  member  was  answered  and  silenced. 
If  his  last  half  year's  subscription  to  the  church  fund 


A  SPUR  IN  THE   SIDE.  287 

had  been  paid,  he  might  have  had  a  word  or  two  more 
to  say.  But,  under  the  circumstances,  he  offered  no 
further  objection. 

I  enjoyed  the  Rector's  society  very  much,  and  sought 
it  on  all  fitting  occasions.  He  was  educated,  liberal  in 
sentiments,  refined  in  character,  genial  as  a  companion, 
and  highly  gifted ;  but  he  was  "  weighted,"  as  the 
"  country  parson  "  would  say,  with  a  sluggishness  of 
temperament,  that,  when  permitted  to  bear  him  down, 
left  half  his  powers  of  mind  inactive.  It  was  only 
when  the  spur  was  in  his  side,  that  he  sprung  to  his 
work  with  an  outlay  of  full  strength.  The  smart 
quickened  his  brain,  and  set  all  its  fine  machinery  in 
motion.  I  happened  to  know  that,  during  the  week 
preceding  the  dull  Sunday  performance  of  which  the 
parishioner  complained,  Mr.  Garland  had  enjoyed  un 
usual  freedom  from  disturbing  influences.  The  next 
week  he  was  not  so  favored,  however. 

Monday  morning  found  the  Rector  in  not  a  very  com 
fortable  frame  of  mind.  He  knew  that  he  had  done 
badly  on  the  day  before,  and  that  the  congregation  had 
gone  home  about  as  hungry  for  spiritual  food  as  when  they 
came  to  worship  and  receive  instruction,  but  was  unable 
to  see  how  he  could  do  better  in  future.  Mind  was  dull 
and  dark  —  there  was  no  flashing  of  light  through  it  — 
no  palpitating  consciousness  of  strength.  It  did  not 


288  A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE. 

seem  to  him  that  he  could  ever  write  another  sermon.  A 
haunting  sense  of  duty  led  him  to  search  about,  in  a 
half-dead  and  alive  way,  for  a  subject  suited  to  the 
state  of  his  congregation.  "  I  must  do  better  on  next 
Sabbath,"  he  said,  in  a  miserable  self-upbraiding  spirit, 
yet  not  rising  out  of  his  sluggish  mental  state.  An 
hour  or  two  spent  in  the  effort  to  fix  upon  a  subject, 
proved  so  fruitless,that  he  left  his  study,  and  was  about 
leaving  the  parsonage  for  a  walk  or  a  visit,  when  the 
carrier  met  him  at  the  door  with  a  letter.  It  was  from 
the  editor  of  a  semi-religious  and  literary  periodical,  and 
the  contents  were  a  brief  reminder  on  the  subject  of  an. 
article  he  had  promised ;  said  article  being  one  of  a  se 
ries  for  which  he  was  to  be  paid. 

The  reception  of  this  letter  gave  annoyance  to  Mr. 
Garland,  instead  of  pleasure.  The  articles  to  be  writ 
ten  were  on  subjects  that  not  only  required  research 
and  study,  but  mental  effort,  in  the  production,  of  no 
ordinary  kind.  It  was  because  he  was  known  to  have 
ability  for  the  work,  that  he  had  been  selected.  Two 
of  the  articles  had  already  been  furnished,  and  they  were 
so  able  and  exhaustive,  that  all  who  had  read  them 
were  looking  with  interest  to  his  completion  of  the  se 
ries.  This  was  the  second  reminder  he  had  received, 
nearly  two  months  having  gone  by  since  his  last  article 
made  its  appearance.  Mr.  Garland  had  gone  back  to 


A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE.  289 

his  study  on  receiving  the  letter.  After  reading  it,  he 
sat  down  in  a  weak,  almost  helpless  state  of  mind. 
There  was  no  consciousness  of  strength  for  the  giant's 
work  demanded ;  and  he  shrunk  with  an  instinct  of 
weakness  from  the  effort.  Still,  the  work  must  be  done 
—  adequately  or  inadequately.  He  had  undertaken  its 
performance,  and  his  promise,  .as  to  time,  had  already 
been  broken.  More  than  this,  the  money  that  would 
be  forthcoming  immediately  on  his  transmission  of  the 
article,  was  due  to  parties  who  had  more  than  once 
asked  for  payment.  Here  was  incentive  enough,  you 
will  say.  And  yet,  the  powers  of  my  friend,  the  Rector, 
were  not  quickened  into  vigorous  life.  The  spur  was 
needed  —  the  smarting  side  that  would  electrify  the 
brain. 

For  an  hour  longer  the  Rector  occupied  his  study, 
forcing  himself  to  the  task  of  gathering  material  for  his 
third  article  ;  but  he  wrought  coldly  and  sluggishly. 
He  could  not  get  interested  in  his  work.  Pushing,  at 
last,  his  books  and  his  papers  aside,  he  was  rising  from 
his  study  table,  and  saying  to  himself — "  It's  of  no 
use ;  I  can't  make  anything  out  of  this  to-day."  When 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  He  opened  it,  and 

met  an  unwelcoihe  face. 

• 

"  Oh,   Mr.  Young !  "  he  said,  trying  to  smile ;  but 
the  muscles  would  not  go  beyond  gravity.     "  Walk  in." 
13 


290  A  SPUR  IN  THE  SIDE. 

Mr.  Young  walked  in  with  a  solid  tread  and  a  cold, 
resolved  manner. 

"  Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Young." 

The  visitor  sat  down  ;  and  the  Rector,  with  heighten 
ing  color,  sat  down,  also.  The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other ;  one  with  a  hard  exacting  expression,  the  other 
with  timidity,  shame,  and  helplessness. 

"  You  know,  of  course,  why  I  am  here,"  said  the 
former. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  there  should  exist  a  necessity  for 
your  calling,"  returned  the  Rector. 

"  So  am  I,"  was  the  blunt  response.  The  visitor  was 
drawing  from  his  deep  breast  pocket,  as  he  spoke,  a 
large  pocket  book.  From  this  he  selected,  with  deliber 
ate  movement,  a  bill,  and  handing  it  to  the  Rector, 
said  — 

"  I  trust,  for  your  own  sake,  that  you  will  settle  my 
account  to-day.  I  have  no  wish  to  give  you  trouble, 
Mr.  Garland,  but  as  I've  been  put  off,  now,  for  over 
three  months,  I've  made  up  my  mind  not  to  be  bam 
boozled  any  longer." 

The  heel  was  heavy  that  struck  a  spur  into  my  friend's 
side ;  and  the  pain  that  followed  was  sharp,  thrilling 
alcmg  every  nerve. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  do  anything  to-day,"  was  replied, 
with  a  troubled  air.  "  Impossible,  Mr.  Young." 


A   SPUR   IN    THE   SIDE.  291 

The  visitor's  heavy  brows  contracted. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  Mr.  Young's  countenance  was 
threatening.  He  thrust  the  pocket  book  into  its  place, 
in  an  angry  manner,  and  rose  from  his  chair. 

For  a  a  few  moments  the  Rector  beat  about  in  his 
mind  helplessly.  Then  he  said  — 

"  The  bill  is  twenty-five  dollars." 

"  That  is  the  amount,  sir,"  answered  the  visitor. 

"  Can  you  wait,  say  ten  days  longer  ?  " 

"  What  can  you  do  in  ten  days  ?  "  was  asked  in  a 
cold,  incredulous  tone. 

"  Pay  your  bill,  I  hope." 

"  You  hope  !  "     The  man  shook  his  head. 

"  We  are  not  certain  of  anything  in  this  world,"  re 
plied  the  Rector,  regaining  something  of  his  lost  dignity 
of  manner.  "  It  is  for  us  to  use  the  best  means  in  our 
power ;  the  result  is  with  God.  I  have  an  article  to 
write  for  a  periodical,  and  will,  on  its  completion  and 
delivery,  receive  twenty-five  dollars.  The  moment  that 
sum  comes  into  my  hand,  you  shall  have  it.  It  will 
take  two  or  three  days  to  complete  the  article  ;  and  sev 
eral  days  will  elapse  after  sending  it  before  I  can  re 
ceive  the  money.  I  think  that  I  may  safely  say,  that 
in  ten  days  your  bill  will  be  settled." 

"  Oh,  very  well !  Take  your  ten  days,"  said  Mr. 
Young,  still  with  a  rudeness  of  manner  that  hurt  my 


292  A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE. 

friend.     "  If  the  money  is  forthcoming  then,  well  ;  if 
not,  I  know  my  remedy.     Good  morning,  sir/' 

As  already  remarked,  the  heel  was  heavy  which 
struck  the  spur  into  the  Rector's  side  on  this  occasion, 
and  the  accompanying  pain  sharp,  thrilling  along  eveiy 
nerve.  He  did  not  leave  his  study  after  his  visitor  re 
tired,  but  sat  down  to  his  work,  with  every  faculty 
stretched  to  the  proper  tension.  Before  night-fall  he 
was  well  into  the  elaboration  of  his  article,  his  mind 
acting  with  a  clearness  and  vigor  that  made  composition 
a  delight.  This  was  on  Monday.  By  Wednesday 
evening  it  was  finished,  and  I  then  had  the  pleasure  of 
listening  to  his  fine  reading,  with  his  soul  alive  in  all 
the  sentences,  of  one  of  the  most  splendid  magazine  pa 
pers  he  had  yet  given  to  the  work  for  which  he  was  a 
favorite  contributor. 

After  this  brilliant  effort,  made  under  the  spur,  my 
friend  the  Rector  fell  back  into  one  of  his  sluggish 
states  of  mind,  and  there  was  danger  of  another  stupid 
Sunday  performance.  He  saw  and  felt  this,  but  had 
not  resolution  enough  to  arouse  himself  and  compel  ac 
tivity.  Friday  found  him  droning  over  a  dull  discourse, 
in  which  memory  and  not  thought  was  present.  On 
Saturday  morning  he  took  up,  heavily,  the  burden  he 
was  trying  to  carry,  and  staggered  along  with  it 
in  a  halting  manner.  Another  stroke  of  the  spur  was 


A   SPUR   IN  THE   SIDE.  293 

needed,  and  the  stroke  was  given.  He  had  latent  pow 
er  enough ;  but  it  needed  will  and  impuise.  Once  in 
motion,  mind  acted  with  singular  strength  and  beauty, 
and  so  it  acted  now.  The  incident  which  gave  impulse 
on  this  occasion,  came  as  a  consequence  of  the  apparently 
inadequate  support  received  in  his  office ;  but  was 
dependent  chiefly  on  his  own  lack  of  prudence  and 
forethought  in  worldly  matters.  It  was  effective,  how 
ever,  and  providentially  permitted  for  a  good  end.  A 
new  theme  was  suggested  to  his  mind,  and  all  alive 
from  sudden  pain,  he  wrought  upon  it  with  vigor  and 
rapidity,  bringing  forth  a  suggestive  and  useful  sermon, 
equal  to  anything  I  had  heard  him  deliver. 

Mr.  Garland  understood  his  own  case,  and  when  I 
referred  to  the  wide  difference  between  the  two  discour 
ses  given  on  consecutive  Sabbaths,  answered  —  "  It  was 
the  spur,  my  friend.  I  am  a  sluggish  animal,  and  reach 
my  best  speed  at  the  expense  of  pricked  sides." 

How  many  of  us  are  like  Mr.   Garland,  Rector  of 

St.  P 's.     It  were  better  if  we  could  give  to  our 

work,  always,  from  a  will  impelled  by  love  or  duty,  the 
full  measure  of  power  with  which  God  has  endowed  us. 
Failing  in  this,  it  is  better  for  the  world,  and  better  for 
ourselves,  that  life  should  be  quickened  by  pain,  and  all 
our  faculties  thus  stimulated  to  effort.  Even  though 
moving  under  compulsion,  there  is  more  delight  in  high 


294  A   SPUR   IN   THE   SIDE. 

mental  activity  than  in  droning  half-work,  or  stupid 
idleness.  And  so  even  the  pricked  sides,  against  which 
we  so  often  complain,  are  the  result  of  merciful  Provi 
dence  ;  and  better  for  us  than  the  ease  and  freedom  from 
care,  trouble  and  misfortunes,  so  ardently  longed  for, 
but  not  given,  lest  they  should  curse  our  own  lives,  and 
rob  the  world  of  its  claim  on  our  ability  to  serve  the 
common  good. 


A  NEW   WORK,  AND   A   NEW   LIFE.  295 


XXIX. 

A  NEW  WORK  AND  A  NEW  LIFE. 

H,  dear  !  Who  can  that  be  ?  As  to 
seeing  any  one  this  morning,  it  is  whol 
ly  out  of  the  question  !  " 

Mrs.  Crawford  arose,  and  going  to 
the  window,  turned  the  venitian  blind 
so  as  to  look  downward,  and  ascertain, 
if  possible,  who  had  rung  the  door 
belh  There  was  a  lady  on  the  step  ; 
but  only  a  portion  of  a  black  silk  dress 
being  visible,  Mrs.  Crawford  could  make  out  the  caller's 
identity. 

"  Mrs.  Scofield,"  said  the  servant,  a  little  while  after 
ward. 

"  Mrs.  Scofield  !  "     In  a  tone  of  surprise,  mingled 
with  fretfulness. 

"  Yes,  ma'am.     She's  in  the  parlor." 

"  0,  dear  !     It's  of  no  use,  Bridget ;  I  can't  see  any 


296  A  NEW   WORK,    AND   A   NEW  LIFB. 

body  this  morning.     Tell  her  that  I'm  not  at  all  well, 
and  that  she  will  have  to  excuse  me." 

The  servant  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  in  a  hesita 
ting  way,  as  if  waiting  for  the  lady's  mind  to  change. 

"  Tell  her  that  I'm  very  sorry  ;  but  —  " 

Mrs.  Crawford  checked  herself.  Considerations  not 
at  first  seen  arose  before  her  mind,  and  caused  a  change 
in  her  purpose. 

"  Say  that  I'll  be  down  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  servant  retired  with  this  message.     In  a  dull, 
moody  way,  Mrs.  Crawford  went  about  effecting  some 
changes  in  her  dress,  which  occupied  nearly  ten  min 
utes. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,"  she  said  to 
her  visitor,  on  entering  the  parlor.  Her  smile  was 
kind  enough,  for  she  really  liked  Mrs.  Scofield.  But  it 
soon  faded  out,  giving  place  to  an  unhappy  look. 

"Are  you  not  well?  "  asked  Mrs,  Scofield,  noticing 
her  sober  .aspect. 

"  I'm  miserable,"  was  the  emphatic  response.  "  Mis 
erable  !  No  other  word  so  well  expresses  my  con 
dition,"  The  dim  ghost  of  a  smile  played  about  the 
lips  of  Mrs.  Crawford  for  an  instant,  and  then  vanished. 

Mrs.  Scofield  waited  for  something  more  explicit. 

"  The  fact  is,  taking  my  experience,  life  is  a  wretched 
affair  at  best.  I'm  disheartened,"  added  Mrs.  Crawford. 


A  NEW   WORK,  AND   A   NEW   LIFE.  297 

"  Disheartened  about  what  ?  "  asked  the  friend. 

"  Oh,  about  everything.  All  seems  to  be  going 
wrong." 

"  I'm  pained  to  hear  you  speak  so,  Mrs.  Crawford. 
What  particular  thing  is  going  wrong  with  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  there's  the  old  standard  trouble  —  servants. 
The  bad  ones  torment,  and  the  good  ones  leave  you.  I 
had  a  cook  wrho  was  a  perfect  treasure.  Meals  always 
ready  in  time  and  well  served.  But,  of  course,  she 
grew  dissatisfied,  though  I  humored  and  gave  way  to 
her  in  almost  everything.  Last  week  she  left  me,  and 
we  are  now  at  the  mercy  of  a  raw  Irish  recruit,  who 
doesn't  know  how  to  boil  a  potato.  I  shall  send  her 
flying  to-morrow.  With  a  husband  as  particular  as 
mine  is,  you  can  guess  at  the  annoyance  to  which  I  am 
subjected.  Then  again,  my  chambermaid  is  going 
away.  She  gave  me  notice  yesterday.  If  I  was  right 
well,  I  wouldn't  care  so  much.  But,  I'm  not  as  I  used 
to  be  —  neither  so  strong  to  endure  in  mind  or  body. 
Little  things,  that  didn't,  in  past  times,  disturb  me  at  all, 
now  set  my  nerves  all  in  a  tremor." 

Poor  Mrs.  Crawford !  She  was  the  image  of  dis 
tress. 

"  Everything  about  me,"  she  resumed,  "  is  getting 
into  disorder.  My  furniture  is  growing  dingier  day  by 

day,  just  for  want  of  thorough  rubbing  and  attention, 
13* 


298  A   NEW  WORK;  AND   A   NEW  LIFE. 

which  you  cannot  get  from  servants,  unless  you  stand 
over  them  all  the  while.  It  makes  my  heart  sick  ! 
And  if  you  follow  them  up,  and  insist  on  having  things 
done  your  own  way,  they  grumble  or  grow  impertinent. 
It's  terrible  to  live  in  this  way  !  In  fact,  it's  killing  me 
by  inches.  If  I  was  one  of  your  don't-care,  easy-go- 
lucky  kind  of  people,  who  let  things  run  at  sixes  and 
sevens,  and  have  a  jolly  time  of  it  with  life,  for  all,  it 
might  be  different.  But  I  am  not.  I  must  have  order 
and  neatness  around  me,  or  I'm  miserable  !  " 

Mrs.  Scofield  in  the  pause  that  followed  this  com 
plaint,  -said,  with  a  certain  sobriety  of  manner  that  was 
just  shaded  with  reproof: 

"  These  things  are  annoying,  of  course,  Mrs.  Craw 
ford  :  but,  when  we  compare  them  with  what  thousands, 
yea  hundreds  of  thousands  around  us  are  now  endur 
ing,  do  they  not  fall  into  insignificance  ?  " 

Mrs.  Crawford  did  not  reply,  and  the  friend  went  on. 

"  I  have  seen  things  during  the  past  week  that  so  re 
buke  me  for  complaint  of  life's  petty  cares  and  annoy 
ances,  as  to  make  my  cheeks  burn  with  shame,  Have 
you  visited  any  of  the  hospitals  ?  " 

"  0,  no.  My  nerves  would  never  stand  that,"  quick 
ly  answered  Mrs.  Crawford. 

"  In  the  face  of  appealing  pain  and  sickness,  the 
nerves  grow  strong,"  said  Mrs.  Scofield.  "  My  own 


A   NEW    WORK,  AND    A    NEW    LIFE.  29j 

heart  failed  me  as  I  crossed  the  threshold  on  my  first 
day's  visit  to  the  sick  and  wounded,  and  I  was  faint  as 
I  entered  the  wards.  But  interest  and  sympathy  soon 
overcome  weakness,  and  when  I  saw  a  pale,  enduring 
face  brighter  at  a  kind  word,  I  felt  twice  repaid  for  the 
effort  it  had  cost  me  to  go  in.  I  have  spent  hours  in 
the  hospitals  every  day  since  then,  and  I  have  called 
this  morning  to  ask  you  to  go  with  me.  There  is  some 
thing  for  us  all  to  do." 

"  Oh,  but  indeed,  Mrs.  Scofield,  I  am  not  strong 
enough.  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"  A  hundred  things,  if  your  heart  is  but  willing. 
Come  !  I  cannot  accept  your  no.  Put  on  your  bonnet 
and  shawl.  If  brave  men  fight  for  the  protection  of 
our  homes,  it  is  the  least  that  loyal  women  can  do,  to 
care  for  them  when  sick  or  wounded.  If  you  are  not 
strong,  enough  to  bear  the  fatigue  of  a  nurse  in  the 
wards,  you  can  at  least  provide  something  for  a  sick,  ex 
hausted  man,  whose  very  life  depends  on  a  quality  of 
nourishment  not  supplied  by  government.  I  appeal  to 
you  in  the  name  of  our  country,  in  the  name  of  human 
ity,  and  in  the  name  of  God !  " 

The  appeal  was  successful.  Mrs.  Crawford,  under 
the  impulse  excited,  went  with  her  friend  to  visit  the 
government  hospital,  in  which  were  over  a  thousand 
sick  and  wounded  soldiers.  Stretching  away  for  hun- 


300  A   NEW    WORK,  AND   A   NEW   LIFE. 

dreds  of  feet  beyond  the  entrance  door,  she  saw  a  dou 
ble  row  of  beds,  most  of  them  occupied.  Her  first  im 
pulse  was  to  stop  and  turn  back.  It  seemed  impossible 
for  her  to  go  forward.  How  could  she  look  this  body 
of  suffering,  much  of  it  unto  death,  in  the  face  ?  Her 
heart  shivered,  and  stood  still  for  a  moment. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Scofield  —  "  She  caught  the  arm  of 
her  friend,  and  drew  back ;  but  the  sentence  remained 
unfinished,  for  a  pair  of  appealing  eyes  were  resting  on 
hers,  and  holding  her  as  by  a  sudden  spell.  Just  to 
the  right  of  where  she  was  standing,  and  a  little  in  ad 
vance,  was  a  bed,  on  which  a  wounded  soldier  was  ly 
ing.  He  wTas  but  a  stripling ;  a  boy  scarcely  in  his 
nineteenth  year. 

Naturally,  Mrs.  Crawford  had  a  tender  heart.  With 
the  sentence  unfinished  on  her  lips,  she  moved  to  the 
bed  on  which  the  boy  was  lying,  and  stooping  ov^r  him,, 
laid  her  hand  softly  on  his  forehead. 

"  Are  you  very  sick  ?  "  she  asked,  uttering  the  first 
question  that  came  to  her  thought. 

"  I've  been  wounded,"  replied  the  young  soldier,  try 
ing  to  smile  and  look  brave.  But  Mrs.  Crawford  no 
ticed  a  quiver  about  his  mouth. 

"Wounded!  Oh— I'm  sorry!  Not  badly,  I 
hope."  Mrs.  Crawford  sat  down  in  a  chair  that  stood 
near  the  bedside. 


A   NEW   WORK,  AND   A    NEW   LIFE.  301 

"  A  ball  struck  rne  in  the  hip,  and  shattered  the  bone. 
I  don't  know  that  I  shall  ever  get  well." 

The  momentary  weakness  had  departed,  and  the  boy 
spoke  firmly,  though  a  little  sadly. 

"  Are  you  in  much  pain  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Crawford. 

44  Not  now,  ma'am." 

"  When  were  you  wounded  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  all  the  battles  before  Richmond.  On  the 
third  day  I  was  struck  and  left  lying  on  the  field  when 
our  army  moved  away.  The  rebels  carried  me  to 
Richmond,  and  put  me  in  prison  with  a  great  many 
other  wounded  men,  numbers  of  whom  died.  I  suffered 
dreadfully.  One  of  their  doctors  examined  my  wound, 
and  took  out  the  ball.  He  said  I'd  never  get  well. 
Then  they  sent  us  back,  under  a  flag  of  truce,  and  I 
was  brought  here." 

"  How  long  was  it  from  the  time  you  were  wounded 
until  you  reached  here  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Crawford. 

"  Over  three  weeks,  ma'am." 

"  And  nothing  done  for  you  in  all  that  time  ?  " 

44  Not  much,  ma'am.  The  doctors  had  their  hands 
full  everywhere.  In  Richmond  they  had  more  than 
they  could  do  to  attend  to  their  own  wounded.  No  one 
seemed  to  care  what  we  suffered,  or  whether  we  lived 
or  died.  Poor  wounded  fellows  —  some  horribly  man 
gled  —  were  thrown  down,  anywhere,  on  the  hard  floor, 


302  A  NEW    WORK,  AND   A   NEW  LIFE. 

and  not  even  straw  given  them  to  lie  on.  At  least  it 
was  so  in  our  prison.  A  great  many  never  saw  the 
face  of  a  doctor,  and  died  for  want  of  attention.  They 
did  all  they  could  for  us,  when  we  got  back  within  our 
own  lines  ;  but  men  get  hardened  after  being  for  awhile 
among  the  wounded.  I  was  lifted  about  very  roughly 
sometimes,  in  being  taken  on  and  off  the  boat,  and  hurt 
a  great  deal.  But  I'm  very  comfortable  here." 

And  as  the  soldier  uttered  his  last  sentence  in  a  tone 
of  satisfaction,  a  smile  played  around  his  lips. 

"  To  what  regiment  do  you  belong  ?  "  asked  the  la- 

dy. 

"  To  the  —  Massachusetts,  Company  B.  I  went 
from  Springfield." 

"  Have  you  friends  there  ?  " 

"  Yes.     My  mother  and  sister  live  in  Springfield." 

"  Do  they  know  that  you  are  wounded  ?  " 

"  If  my  name  was  in  the  paper  they  have  seen  it. 
But  I  can't  say  whether  it  was  published  or  not.'* 

"  You  haven't  heard  from  them  since  the  battle  in 
which  you  were  hurt  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  this  hospital  ?  " 

"  Only  three  days." 

"  And  they  don't  know  that  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  No  ma'am.     I'm  not  strong  enough  to  write  yet." 


A   NEW   WORK,    AND    A   NEW   LIFE.  803 

"  Shall  I  write  for  you  ?" 

The  boy's  face  lit  up  —  gratitude  beamed  from  his 
eves. 

"  If  ft  would  not  be  too  much  trouble." 

Mrs.  Crawford  took  a  pencil  and  card  from  her  pock 
et,  and  wrote  down  the  name  of  the  soldier's  mother. 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  all  that  you  have  told  me  ?  Let 
her  know  just  how  badly  you  are  wounded  ?  " 

The  young  soldier  shut  his  eyes,  and  remained  silent 
for  some  moments. 

"  No,  that  would  distress  her  too  much,"  he  said,  with 
a  thoughtful  air.  "  It  will  be  bad  enough  for  her  to 
know  that  I  am  wounded.  Tell  her,  if  you  please,  that 
I  am  getting  on  very  well  here,  and  hope  to  be  on  my 
feet  again  before  a  long  time.  Say  that  a  ball  passed 
through  my  leg  ;  but  don't  speak  of  my  shattered  hip. 
They've  taken  out  two  pieces  of  bone  since  I  came  here, 
and  maybe  I'll  get  all  right.  Anyhow,  it  won't  do  any 
good  to  let  her  know  the  worst  on  the  offstart." 

"  Perhaps  she  wrill  come  on  to  see  you?  "  said  Mrs. 
Crawford. 

Tears  sprung  to  the  poor  fellow's  eyes ;  but  he  wiped 
them  off  quickly.  He  did  not  reply  to  the  suggestion  ; 
but  it  was  plain  to  see  with  what  joy  he  would  have 
welcomed  her. 

"  I  will  write  the  letter  as  soon  as  I  go  home.     And 


304  A   NEW    WORK,  AND    A    NEW   LIFE. 

now,  is  there  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you  more  com 
fortable  ;  anything  that  I  can  get  for  you  ?  " 

A  wishful  look  came  into  the  lad's  eyes.  It  was  his 
only  reply.  Mrs.  Crawford  saw  it,  and  half  compre 
hending  its  significance,  said : 

"  Don't  feel  backward.  If  I  can  do  anything  for 
you,  the  act  will  give  me  pleasure.  How  is  your  appe 
tite  ?  " 

"  Not  very  good." 

One  hand  was  lying  outside  the  bed  covering.  Mrs. 
Crawford  touched  it.  * 

4C  You  have  some  fever,"  she  said. 

46  That's  the  reason,  perhaps,  why  —  " 

The  sick  lad  checked  himself,  and  a  slight  flush  came 
into  his  face. 

"  Speak  out  freely.  Just  think  that  I'm  your  moth 
er,  and  tell  me  what  you  want."  All  the  heart  of  Mrs. 
Crawford  was  going  out  toward  the  wounded  boy. 

"  You're  very  good  and  kind,  ma'am,"  he  answered, 
4 '  and  you  won't  think  me  foolish  or  unreasonable. 
But,  you  see,  a  lady  yesterday  brought  some  grapes  to 
a  poor,  sick  fellow,  across  there,  and,  as  he  ate  them,  I 
longed  so  for  just  two  or  three  that  I  almost  cried.  It 
wasn't  right  I  know.  But,  indeed,  ma'am,  I  couldn't 
help  it.  And  ever  since  I've  been  longing  for  some 
grapes.  It's  the  fever,  maybe." 


A  NEW   WORK,  AND   A    NEW   LIFE.  205 

"  You  shall  have  them  !  "  said  Mrs.  Crawford,  rising 
quickly ;  and  away  she  went,  under  the  impulse  of  pity 
and  kindness,  leaving  the  hospital  without  thinking  of 
her  friend  Mrs.  Scofield,  and  hurrying  oif  to  a  fruit 
store,  where  she  bought  a  pound  of  juicy,  hot-house 
grapes.  She  was  back  again  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 

"  They  will  not  hurt  him  ?  "  she  said  to  the  nurse  in 
charge  of  the  bed  on  which  the  wounded  soldier  lay. 

"  You  may  give  him  half-a-dozen  now,"  replied  the 
nurse. 

"  Oh,  they  are  so  good !"  exclaimed  the  lad,  as  he 
crushed  the  luscious  fruit  in  his  mouth,  and  swallowed 
the  refreshing  juice.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and  smiles  ran 
over  his  face. 

u  It  was  very  kind  of  you,  and  I  shall  never  forget  it 
as  long  as  I  live."  His  countenance  beamed  with  pleas 
ure  and  gratitude. 

"  Keep  the  rest  for  him,"  said  Mrs.  Crawford,  hand 
ing  what  remained  of  the  grapes  to  the  nurse  in  attend 
ance  on  that  part  of  the  ward.  For  nearly  an  hour 
longer  she  remained  with  the  yonng  soldier,  listening  to 
his  account  of  life  in  camp  and  on  the  battle-field,  so 
deeply  interested  that  she  scarcely  noted  the  passage  of 
time.  Then,  promising  to  see  him  again  on  the  next 
day,  she  went  home  to  write  about  him  to  his  mother. 

How  different  was  Mrs.  Crawford's  state  of  mind  on 


306  A   NEW   WORK,    AND   A   NEW   LIFE. 

reaching  home,  and  entering  the  room  where  only  a  lit 
tle  while  before  she  sat  brooding  miserably  over  life's 
petty  troubles.  How  mean  and  insignificant  appears 
these  troubles  now  !  She  felt  rebuked  and  humiliated. 

When  Mr.  Crawford  left  his  wife  in  the  morning, 
she  was  in  one  of  her  fretful,  gloomy,  self-tormenting 
states,  which  had  led  him  to  say,  as  he  went  out  of  the 
breakfast-room : 

"  Don't  wait  dinner  for  me.  I  shall  dine  down  town 
to-day." 

This  was  happening  two  or  three  times  every  week, 
notwithstanding  Mr.  Crawford  had  long  ago  became 
disgusted  with  eating-house  fare.  But  he  preferred  the 
restaurant  to  home,  with  its  fretfulness  and  gloom. 

Thought  and  feeling  with  Mrs.  Crawford  were  all  set 
ting  in  a  new  current.  Her  sympathies  were  deeply  ex 
cited.  During  the  brief  period  she  remained  in  the  hos 
pital  her  eyes  had  taken  in  enough  to  stir  human  nature 
to  its  profoundest  depth.  Chiefly  she  had  given  herself 
to  the  boy-soldier,  and  let  her  first  efforts  expend  them 
selves  for  him,  because  the  work  came  like  ripe  fruit 
into  her  hand.  But,  even  as  she  sat  writing  of  him  to 
his  mother,  other  countenances  besides  that  of  the  lad, 
and  other  cases  that  called  for  help  in  silent  pleadings, 
arose  before  her,  and  filled  her  heart  with  compassionate 
desires. 


A   NEW   WORK,  AND   A   NEW   LIFE.  3Q7 

It  was  a  little  past  six  o'clock  when  Mr.  Crawford 
came  home.  The  thermometer  of  his  feeling  gradually 
went  down  as  he  approached  his  pleasant  dwelling  — 
pleasant  so  far  as  all  things  external  were  concerned. 
He  remembered  the  gloomy  face  he  had  left  in  the  morn 
ing,  and  experience  gave  him  no  fair  promise  of  finding 
smiles  instead  of  shadow.  He  opened  the  door  quietly 
and  went  in.  His  step  along  the  hall  was  not  strong  and 
confident,  like  that  of  a  man  within  his  own  castle,  and 
glad  to  be  there ;  but  in  part  restrained,  and  scarcely 
arousing  an  echo. 

"Is  that  you,  Edward?"  The  voice  came  down 
from  the  first  landing.  There  was  a  quality  of  feeling 
in  the  tones  that  made  Mr.  Crawford  leap  with  surprise 
and  pleasure.  He  saw  the  old  beauty  in  his  wife's  face  ; 
the  old  rippling  light  in  her  eyes  ;  the  old,  sweet  tender 
ness  about  her  mouth  —  and  new-born  love  made  the 
offering  of  a  kiss  spontaneous. 

"  You  cannot  guess  where  I  have  been,  Edward." 
Mrs.  Crawford  had  drawn  her  arm  within  her  husband's. 
The  smile  faded  gently  from  her  countenance,  over 
which  a  tender  seriousness  spread  itself. 

44  Where  ?  "     He  inquired  with  interest. 

"  To  one  of  the  hospitals." 

"  Why  Helen  !  "     He  might  well  look  surprised. 

"  And  I'm  going  to-morrow  again  —  and  every  day." 


308  A  NEW   WORK,  AND   A   NEW  LIFE. 

Mrs.  Crawford  spoke  with  animation.  "  I  saw  a  poor 
wounded  boy  there,  not  over  eighteen  or  nineteen,  and 
I've  been  writing  for  him  to  his  mother.  His  bright 
eyes  and  almost  girlish,  but  suffering  face,  were  like  a 
spell  on  me  when  I  went  in,  and  sat  down  to  talk  with 
him.  His  hands  were  hot,  and  his  mouth  feverish  — 
poor  boy  !  his  hip  had  been  shattered  by  a  ball  —  and 
when  I  asked  him  if  there  was  anything  I  could  get  for 
him,  he  said,  hesitatingly,  that  he  had  been  longing  for 
some  grapes.  I  went  out  immediately,  and  bought  him 
some  Black  Hamburgs.  Oh,  if  you  could  have  seen 
his  eager,  delighted  face  as  he  crushed  them  in  his 
mouth  !  It  repaid  me  a  thousand  fold." 

Mr.  Crawford  quietly  drew  out  his  pocket-book,  and 
taking  therefrom  a  roll  of  bank  bills,  said,  with  consid 
erable  feeling,  as  he  handed  them  to  his  wife  : 

"  As  your  heart  prompts,  so  do,  Helen.  I  am  with 
you  in  this  noble  duty.  Give  all  your  days  to  the  work, 
and  let  home  take  care  of  itself.  We  have  surfeited 
ourselves  with  the  good  things  of  this  world,  until  they 
have  commenced  palling  on  the  taste.  Now,  let  us  find 
a  new  life  in  gift  and  ministration." 

And  a  new  life  wras  born  in  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Craw 
ford.  Daily  she  spent  hours  among  the  sick  and 
wounded,  or  in  the  preparation  of  things  needed  for 
their  restoration  and  comfort ;  and  though  a  witness  of 


A  NEW   WORK,  AND   A   NEW   LIFE.  3Q9 

suffering  in  terrible  forms,  and  of  almost  daily  deaths, 
she  yet  maintained  a  calm  and  cheerful  exterior,  and 
filled  the  home  her  fretful,  dissatisfied  spirit  had  once 
overshadowed  with  gloom,  with  an  all-pervading  sun 
shine. 

It  was  remarkable  how  quickly  all  trouble  with  ser 
vants  came  to  an  end.  There  was  a  new  spirit  in  the 
mistress,  which  pervaded  every  part  of  her  household, 
making  duty  and  obedience  a  pleasure,  and  not  a  task. 
Instead  of  perpetual  hindrances,  there  soon  became  man 
ifest  a  common  desire  to  act  with  Mrs.  Crawford  in  all 
her  cheerfully  expressed  wishes,  leading  to  unity  and 
harmony,  which  are  the  hand-maidens  of  peace. 


olO 


CARE-WORN. 


XXX. 

CARE-WORN. 

OW  pale  and  care-worn  Mr.  Emory 
looks  !  "  remarked  a  lady  to  her  hus 
band,  as  the  person  to  whom  she  refer 
red  crossed  the  room  with  an  elegantly- 
dressed  young  lady,  his  daughter,  lean 
ing  on  his  arm. 

"  No  wonder,"  Was  replied.     "  Mr. 
Emory  has   enough  to  make  him  look 
pale  and  care-worn." 

"  Has  anything  happened  in  his  family  ?  "     The  lady 
turned  curiously  toward  her  husband. 
"  I  believe  not." 
"  What  is  wrong,  then  ?  " 

"  Much ;  as  witness  the  troubled  look  that  rests  al 
ways  on  his  face  when  it  is  in  repose.  A  peaceful  mind 
never  records  itself  in  such  an  expression.  I  am  glad 
to  see  him  among  us  for  a  few  days.  He  needs  the 


CARE-WORN.  311 

change  and  mental  recreation  —  needs  them  a  great  deal 
more  than  nine  out  of  ten  who  are  here.  But  he  can 
not  stay  long  enough  to  receive  any  permanent  benefit. 
Wife  and  daughters  will  remain  ;  he  must  speed  back  to 
the  city." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  Business." 

"  Yes,  that  is  the  word  with  men.  They  worship 
business  with  the  blind  devotion  of  idolaters.  Every 
thing  is  sacrificed  to  business." 

"Why?" 

The  husband's  face  was  serious.  His  wife  did  not 
answer  the  question. 

"  I  will  tell  you.  It  is  chiefly  because  men,  in  our 
day,  try  to  do  more  business  than  they  are  able  to  man 
age.  They  are  anxious  to  secure  large  returns  in  a 
brief  time." 

u  Men  should  be  wiser  and  more  prudent,"  was  re 
sponded.  "  Common  sense  should  teach  them  a  better 
way." 

"  I  grant  you  this.  But  there  are  influences  at  work 
with  almost  every  man  that  too  frequently  prove  strong 
er  than  prudence  or  common  sense." 

"  What  are  they  ?  " 

"Social  pride." 

"  Has  that  any  thing  to  do  with  Mr.  Emory's  care 
worn  face  ?  " 


312  CARE-WORN. 

"  Every  thing.  Mr.  Emory  possessed  a  business,  ten 
years  ago,  which,  if  rightly  managed,  would  have  made 
him  to-day  an  independent  man  in  the  world,  instead  of 
one  almost  harrassed  to  death.  It  is  the  old  story. 
His  family  must  occupy  a  certain  position  in  society. 
Thev  must  go  with  the  fashionable  crowd.  There  must 
be  a  fine  house  and  costly  furniture ;  dress  and  show  ; 
costly  emulations.  All  these  things  require  money.  It 
is  easy  to  sink  a  few  thousands  of  dollars  every  year  in 
home  extravagances,  and  have  nothing  very  satisfacto 
ry  to  show  for  it  at  the  end.  Two  thousand  dollars  a 
year  for  ten  years  make  the  handsome  sum  of  twenty 
thousand  dollars  ;  and  I'm  very  sure  that,  without  the 
abridgement  of  a  single  comfort  or  the  removal  of  a  sin 
gle  element  of  rational  enjoyment,  at  least  that  large 
amount  of  money  could  have  been  saved  by  the  family 
of  Mr.  Emory  during  the  period  mentioned.  What 
then?" 

"  Mr.  Emory  would  have  been  just  twenty  thousand 
dollars  better  off  than  he  is  to-day,"  said  the  lady.  "  So 
much  richer,  but  whether  any  the  less  a  pale,  care-worn 
devotee  of  business  is  open  to  a  doubt.  This  business, 
it  strikes  me,  is  a  kind  of  mental  disease." 

"  Only  in  a  few  cases,"  was  replied.  "  In  Mr.  Em 
ory's  case,  as  I  happen  to  know,  necessity,  and  not  im 
pulse,  is  the  law  of  force.  I  saw  him  ten  days  ago,  and 


CARE-WORN.  313 

tlie  interview  left  a  painful  impression  on  my  mind.  We 
are  personally  intimate  enough  to  talk  freely  together. 
I  said  to  him, 

"  ;  Are  you  going  to  the  sea-shore  this  year  ?  ' 

"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  faintly.  It 
was  the  ghost  of  a  smile,  dying  almost  as  soon  as  born. 
'  Can't  get  away,  even  if  I  could  afford  it.' 

"  '  Why  can't  you  get  away  ?  *  I  asked. 

"  He  reached  his  hand  for  his  bill-book,  and  opening 
to  the  month  of  August,  pointed  to  half  a  page  of  en 
tries,  which  my  practical  eyes  very  well  understood. 
4  Foots  six  thousand  and  upward,'  said  he,  significantly. 

"  '  You  have  the  funds  in  bank,  or  to  come  in  during 
the  month,'  I  remarked. 

"  '  Not  five  hundred  in  bank,'  he  answered,  looking 
painfully  concerned,  '  nor  a  thousand  beyond  on  which 
any  certain  calculation  is  to  be  made.  So  you  see  I 
shall  have  to  be  on  hand  all  the  time,  just  to  work  and 
scheme  in  the  direction  of  money-raising.  Heaven  only 
knows  how  I  am  to  get  through  !  As  for  business,  I 
might  shut  my  store  for  a  month  and  not  be  any  the 
worse  off.' 

" 4 1  wish,  from  my  heart,'  said  I,  speaking  from  a 
kind  impulse  toward  Mr.  Emory,  who  is  a  true  man, 
*  that  you  had  twenty  thousand  dollars  in  bank.' 

"  '  I  should  be  the  happiest  man  alive  !  '  he  answered, 
14 


314  CARE-WORN. 

with  a  sudden  light  flashing  over  his  face.  How  quick 
ly  that  light  receded  !  How  sad  the  face  its  fleeting  ra 
diance  left  behind  ! 

"  Now  two  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  ten  years,  sav 
ed  in  expenses  which  have  not  increased  the  happiness 
of  his  family  one  iota,  would  have  given  to  Mr.  Emory 
a  large  sum  of  money.  With  that  in  possession,  I  doubt 
if  his  face  would  be  so  pale  and  care-worn  as  you  see  it 
to-day.  Visions  of  bankruptcy,  of  commercial  dishon 
ors,  and  of  home  desolations,  the  bare  thought  of  which 
almost  drive  men  to  madness,  would  not  haunt  his  wak 
ing  reveries  and  midnight  dreams.  I  see  no  reasonable 
hope  for  a  safe  deliverance  out  of  his  troubles.  As  his 
expenses  went  on  eating  into  the  life  of  his  business,  and 
payments  became,  in  consequence,  hard  to  meet,  Mr. 
Emory  increased  his  trade  by  forced  means,  not  always 
safe  —  buying  more  largely,  and  selling  to  a  wider  range 
of  customers,  with  less  of  scruple  in  regard  to  their 
standing,  until  he  found  himself  in  deep  waters,  and  in 
danger.  Since  that  time  I  am  afraid  it  is  growing  worse 
with  him  instead  of  better.  There  is  only  one  remedy, 
if  its  application  be  not  already  too  late." 

"What?" 

"  It  is  said  that  a  knowledge  of  our  disease  is  more 
than  half  the  cure.  This  means  that  in  a  removal  of 
discovered  causes  effects  must  cease.  Mr.  Emory's  only 


CARE-WORN.  315 

hope  lies  in  a  reduction  of  his  home  expenses.  If  these 
go  on,  exhausting  him  more  and  more,  ruin  is  inevita 
ble." 

"  It  will  be  a  hard  thing  for  his  gay  daughters  to  step 
down  from  their  advance  position,"  said  the  wife. 

u  Better  for  them  to  step  down  than  to  fall  down. 
Down  I  am  sure  they  will  have  to  come,  and  that  be 
fore  a  very  long  time.  We  shall  hardly  find  them  here 
in  the  next  watering  season.'' 

A  young  lady,  unobserved  by  the  speakers,  had  been 
sitting  in  a  window  recess  close  enough  to  hear  every 
word.  She  leaned  and  listened  in  an  attitude  of  deep 
interest,  her  face  flushing  and  palling  by  turns. 

"  Isn't  that  one  of  Mr.  Emory's  daughters  ?  "  said 
the  lady  to  her  husband,  as  the  person  referred  to  arose 
and  crossed  the  long  parlor. 

"  I  believe  so,"  was  answered. 

"  It  can't  be  possible  that  she  heard  your  remarks  about 
her  father  ?  " 

"  They  were  not  meant  for  her  ears ;  but  if  they 
have  found  their  way  there,  well.  I  can  not  say  that  I 
regret  their  utterance." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  lady.  "  Poor  girl !  How 
hurt  and  mortified  she  must  be." 

"  All  of  her  pain  and  mortification  will  be  light  in 
comparison  to  what  her  father  suffers  daily  and  hourly," 


316  CARE-WORN. 

was  replied.  "  If  she  have  any  true  love  for  him;  she 
will  now  seek  to  lighten  rather  than  increase  his  bur 
dens." 

The  person  of  whom  they  spoke,  Mr.  Emory's  second 
daughter,  after  leaving  the  public  parlor,  fled  up  stairs 
like  one  escaping  from  pursuit.  On  gaining  her  own 
room,  she  shut  and  locked  the  door  —  then  sat  down 
with  her  hands  across  her  breast,  pale-cheeked  and  pant 
ing.  The  aspect  of  her  countenance  was  that  of  one 
oppressed  by  sudden  terror. 

Agnes  loved  her  father  purely  and  tenderly.  She 
had  not  failed  to  observe  the  cloud  which  was  gradually 
settling  upon  his  life,  nor  the  pale,  care-worn  face  that 
looked  in  upon  their  home  at  the  close  of  each  recurring 
day.  As  Mr.  Emory  never  referred  to  his  business  in 
the  family  circle,  the  true  cause  of  this  remained  com 
pletely  hidden.  Not  the  remotest  suspicion  thereof  had, 
up  to  this  time,  reached  her  apprehension.  Suddenly  a 
veil  was  drawn  aside,  and  she  stood  in  pain  and  fear, 
looking  at  the  undisguised  reality  of  her  father's  true 
position. 

What  could  Agnes  Emory  do?  Young,  inexperi 
enced,  inefficient,  through  defective  education,  she  felt 
her  weakness,  and  for  a  time  wept  in  conscious  help 
lessness. 

"  Agnes  !  "     It  was  her  mother's  voice. 


CARE-WORN.  317 

The  weeping  girl  endeavored  to  staunch  her  tears, 
but  in  vain.  Her  face  was  flooded  as  she  opened  the 
door. 

"  Why,  Agnes,  my  child  !  what  has  happened  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Emory,  in  surprise. 

Agnes  tried  to  answer,  but  sobs  came  in  the  place  of 
words.  At  length,  as  the  turbulence  of  feeling  began 
to  abate,  she  said,  with  tears  still  falling  over  her  face, 

"  Won't  you  ask  father  to  come  here  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  why  not  tell  me  about  your  trou 
ble  first?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  Oh,  ask  him  to  come, 
mother  ;  and  bring  Emma  and  Alice." 

In  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Emory  came  hurriedly  to  Ag- 
nes's  room,  followed  by  his  wife  and  other  daughters. 
Already  Agnes  had  been  able  to  dry  her  tears  ;  but  her 
face  was  colorless. 

Tenderly,  almost  pityingly,  she  looked  up  at  her  fath 
er,  and  seizing  one  of  his  hands  in  both  of  hers,  held  it 
tightly  against  her  breast,  saying,  as  she  did  so, 

"  Oh,  father,  if  we  had  only  known  what  was  troub 
ling  you  !  " 

"  Troubling  me  !  "  answered  Mr.  Emory  in  astonish 
ment,  as  he  held  Agnes  a  little  way  from  him  and  gaz 
ed  at  her  wonderingly. 

"  Yes,  father,  you've  been  troubled  a  long  time.     I've 


318  CARE-WORN. 

seen  it,  and  we've  all  seen  it.  You  come  home  and  sit 
silent  all  the  evening.  You  have  grown  pale  and  thin. 
You  look  often  so  care-worn.  And  instead  of  helping 
you,  we  have  only  laid  heavier  burdens  on  your  shoul 
ders." 

"  What  does  the  girl  mean  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Em 
ory,  in  a  half-reproving  voice. 

"  Come,  sit  down,  dear,  we  must  have  all  this  ex 
plained,"  said  the  father,  leading  Agnes  to  a  chair,  and 
taking  one  beside  her.  "  You  say  that  I've  been  trou 
bled  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  so,  father  ?  "  Agnes  raised  again  her  brim 
ming  eyes  to  her  father's  face. 

"  This  is  a  world  of  trouble,  my  child,  and  all  must 
take  a  share,"  he  answered  evasively. 

"  Our  share  has  been  very  light,  and  yours  very 
heavy,"  was  the  prompt  reply  ;  "  and  now  there  must 
be  a  change.  We  must  take  off  some  of  the  burdens 
that  weigh  down  your  stooping  shoulders.  Oh,  father  ! 
why  did  you  not  let  us  share  them  long  and  long  ago  ? 
Did  you  doubt  our  willingness  ?  did  you  question  our 
love  ?  " 

"  I  am  bewildered,  my  child,"  said  Mr.  Emory,  his 
voice  growing  unsteady.  "  It  is  true  that  I  am  trou 
bled —  that  my  burdens  are  Leavy;  but  from  what 
source  have  you  received  information  in  regard  to  them  ? 
Speak  out  plainly,  Agnes." 


CARE-WORN.  319 

And  she  did  speak  plainly,  relating,  almost  word  for 
word,  the  conversation  we  have  given. 

"  Is  this  all  true,  Edward  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Emory,  as 
Agnes  ceased  speaking.  Her  voice  was  sad,  but  not 
weak.  She  had  drawn  near  to  her  husband,  and  now 
stood  with  her  hand  resting  firmly  upon  him. 

"  All  true,"  was  gloomily  answered. 

There  fell  upon  the  group  of  father,  mother  and 
daughters,  a  deep  silence,  in  which  heart-beatings  were 
nearly  audible. 

"  We  have  no  right  to  be  here,"  said  the  eldest  daugh 
ter  breaking  the  silence.  "  Let  us  go  home  to  day." 

"  In  the  next  hour,  if  a  train  starts,"  responded  Ag 
nes. 

"  Why  did  you  let  us  come  ?  Oh,  father,  it  was  so 
wrong  —  so  wrong  !  " 

And  the  youngest  of  the  group  laid  her  face  down, 
weeping,  on  her  father's  shoulder. 

"  I  meant  to  have  spared  you  this,"  said  the  brave, 
enduring  man,  with  an  irrepressible  emotion.  "  I  trust 
ed  that  all  would  come  out  right.  I  struggled  hard  to 
maintain  myself,  so  that  no  shadow  might  darken  my 
home.  But  I  fear  that  all  has  been  in  vain.  The 
weight  lies  too  heavily  upon  me,  and  if  not  lightened  in 
some  way  I  must  sink." 

"  You  shall  not  sink,  father,  if  we  can  bear  you  up," 


820  CARE-WORN. 

answered  Agnes,  bravely.  "  Let  us  go  home  to-day  ; 
and  when  we  get  home  tell  us  everything  about  your 
business,  so  that  we  can  understand  just  what  duty  re 
quires.  I'm  sure  we  will  all  be  of  one  heart  and  mind. 
If  we  are  living  too  expensively,  let  us  go  down  lower 
and  take  a  humbler  position.  With  what  I  heard  just 
now  ringing  in  my  ears,  I  shall  not  have  a  moment's 
peace  of  mind  until  we  retire  from  the  public  gaze." 

"  We  are  of  one  mind,"  said  all.  And  with  one  mind 
they  acted,  starting  for  the  city  on  that  very  day. 

The  change  that  followed  was  thorough,  reaching  to 
every  department  of  their  home  life.  In  a  brave  and 
self-denying  spirit  wife  and  daughters  rallied  to  the  res 
cue.  Watches,  jewelry,  surplus  furniture,  pictures,  and 
articles  of  simple  ornament,  were  sold,  and  the  money, 
which  reached  the  sum  of  nearly  two  thousand  dollars, 
returned  to  the  business  from  which  it  should  never  have 
been  taken.  Their  large  and  handsome  dwelling  was 
exchanged  for  a  cheap  and  modest  home.  One  ser 
vant  only  was  retained  —  three  had  been  required  — 
and  the  cost  of  living,  under  a  system  of  the  most  rigid 
economy,  reduced  from  between  three  and  four  thou 
sand  dollars  a  year  to  a  ratio  of  about  twelve  hundred. 

A  new  hope  sprung  to  light  in  the  heart  of  Mr.  Em 
ory.  The  money  received  for  the  sale  of  surplus  furni 
ture  and  articles  of  mere  ornament  came  to  his  hand 


CARE-WORN.  321 

just  in  time  to  save  him  from  protest,  and  carried  him 
over  a  difficult  place  where  he  would  inevitably  have 
fallen.  He  felt  that  his  ship  was  lightened ;  that  she 
was  answering  more  steadily  to  the  helm,  and  bearing 
up  to  the  wind.  "  Courage  !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  I 
shall  yet  come  out  safely." 

If  the  home  to  which  Mr.  Emory  returned  after  each 
day's  hard  battle  was  humbler,  the  face  he  brought  was 
not  so  care-worn.  A  cheerful  light  shone  oftener  in  the 
eyes  that  were  always  sad  before.  He  did  not  sit  silent 
and  withdrawn  from  the  home  circle  as  once,  brooding 
over  the  dark  and  doubtful  future,  but  read  and  talked 
through  the  evening  hours  with  his  wife  and  children, 
giving  and  receiving  strength.  Had  the  daughters  lost 
more  than  was  gained  by  the  withdrawal  from  gay  cir 
cles,  and  denial  of  pride  and  social  ambition  ?  Had  duty 
been  all  a  burden  ?  Not  so ;  duty  is  never  all  a  burden. 
If  it  be  sometimes  hard  and  rough,  there  is  always  a 
sweet  kernel  at  the  centre.  They  were,  in  their  seclu 
sion  and  patient  service,'  happier  than  before,  and  grow 
ing  into  a  stronger,  purer,  and  truer  life.  As  for  Mr. 
Emory,  an  almost  despairing  struggle  with  fortune  had 
been  changed  for  a  hopeful  one.  Confidence  took  the 
place  of  doubt.  He  began  to  feel,  under  the  lighter 
burdens  that  rested  upon  him,  a  more  elastic  and  vigor 
ous  condition  of  mind.  He  was  clearer-seeing  and  more 
14* 


C22  CARE-WORN. 

sagacious  in  business.  There  was  a  lifting  up  of  the 
darkness  along  the  black  horizon,  and  a  promise  of  the 
coming  dawn. 

"  Father  is  very  late  to-night,"  said  Agnes,  looking 
up  at  her  mother,  who  entered  the  room  where  she  sat 
with  some  needle-work  in  her  hands.  It  was  the  eve 
ning  of  New  Year's  Day. 

As  she  spoke,  the  father's  well-known  tread  was  heard 
in  the  passage. 

"  Oh,  there  he  is  now  !  "  And  Agnes  laid  aside  her 
work,  moving  to  meet  her  father  as  he  ascended  the 
stairs. 

"  How  late  you  are  !  "  she  said,  as  she  bent  forward 
to  receive  the  kiss  that  now  almost  always  accompanied 
his  return. 

"  It  is  late,"  replied  Mr.  Emory ;  "  but  I  could  not 
leave  the  store  until  I  had  completed  some  calculations 
I  had  in  hand."  His  face  was  cheerful  —  more  cheer 
ful  than  it  had  yet  been  ;  radiant,  in  fact,  with  smiles. 

"  The  work  must  have  been  satisfactory,"  said  Mrs. 
Emory,  "judging  from  the  pleasant  state  of  mind  in 
which  it  has  left  you." 

"  It  was  satisfactory,"  replied  Mr.  Emory,  with  em 
phasis.  "  For  two  or  three  days  we  have  been  taking 
an  account  of  stock,  and  to-day  has  been  spent  in  clos 
ing  the  account  and  getting  at  the  result.  I  am  happy 


CARE-WORN.  322 

to  say  that  it  is  more  encouraging  than  was  anticipated. 
Six  months  ago  bankruptcy  stared  me  in  the  face,  and  I 
saw  no  means  of  escape.  Now  I  think  the  danger  past. 
If  I  had  been  left  standing  alone,  I  must  have  fallen ; 
but,  wife  and  children  sustaining  me,  strength  came  in 
the  hour  of  exhaustion.  All  is  safe  now,  I  trust ;  safe 
for  the  present,  and  safe  for  the  future.  Our  home  is 
not  so  large  nor  so  luxurious  as  it  was  on  last  New 
Year's  Day  ;  but  then  it  rested  on  a  sandy  foundation, 
and  the  storm  was  gathering  which,  had  it  burst  over  us, 
would  have  left  all  in  ruins.  Now,  solid  earth  and  rock 
are  beneath  our  house,  and  I  do  not  shudder  in  fear  of 
the  rising  tempest.  Is  it  not  far  better  with  us  than 
then  ?  Are  we  not  happier,  though  humbler  ?  " 

"  Happier  a  thousand-fold  !  "  said  Agnes,  as  she  drew 
an  arm  fondly  around  her  father.  "  We  speak  of  it  to 
each  other  every  day,  and  wonder  at  our  former  blind 
ness  and  folly.  To  see  smiles  in  the  care-worn  face  of 
our  father  again — to  hear  him  speak  cheerfully  and 
hopefully  —  to  know  that  we  have  helped  to  lift  burdens 
from  his  shoulders  that  were  crushing  him  down  —  these 
are  our  rich  reward  !  " 

"And  mine  in  having  such  children  !  "  replied  Mr. 
Ernory,  with  feeling.  u  In  every  home,  if  rightly  or 
dered,  lie  all  the  elements  of  happiness  ;  and,  thank 
!  we  hare  found  them  at  last.  I  was  at  fault  in 


324  CARE-WORN. 

not  taking  you  long  ago  into  my  counsels.  How  much 
of  pain  and  peril  might  have  been  saved !  But  the 
night  is  past,  and  we  bless  the  morning  !  " 

And  so  might  the  morning  break  in  thousands  of 
homes  over  which  shadows  rest,  if  wives  and  daughters 
were  wrholly  trusted,  and  made  to  comprehend  the  real 
struggle  with  fortune  in  which  husbands  and  fathers  are 
engaged.  Thousands  of  pale,  care-worn  faces  would 
grow  warm  and  cheerful ;  and  thousands  of  stooping 
shoulders,  lightened  of  crushing  burdens,  grow  erect. 

Wives  and  daughters,  ponder  these  things !  Hus 
bands  and  fathers,  take  them  into  your  counsels  ! 


325 


XXXI. 

SERVICE,   NOT  LOVE. 

V 

HAT  of  your  new  nurse,  Ida  ? " 
was  the  inquiry  of  a  lady  friend. 
The  young  mother's  face  changed 
a  little  at  the  question.  She  was 
of  those  who  are  called  favorites 
of  fortune.  Wealth  gave  her 
ease,  luxury  and  elegance,  and  al 
so  their  almost  invariable  attend 
ants,  false  ideas  of  life.  Because 
poorer  people  were  obliged  to  be  useful  and  industrious, 
service  of  any  kind  was  felt  to  have  in  it  something  de 
grading. 

"  She  does  not  give  entire  satisfaction,"  added  the 
friend,  before  Ida  had  time  to  reply.  Her  face  had  giv 
en  the  answer. 

"  No,  far  from  it." 
"  What  is  the  fault  ?  " 


326  SERVICE,  NOT   LOVB. 

"  There's  no  heart  in  her,"  said  the  young  mother. 

"  You  mean  that  she  doesn't  seem  to  have  any  heart 
in  her  work." 

u  Yes,  that's  just  what  I  mean.  She  handles  the  ba 
by  as  if  he  were  a  senseless  doll  instead  of  the  dear, 
sweet,  precious  thing  that  he  is.  She's  as  cold  as  an 
icicle." 

"  Isn't  she  kind  and  careful  with  the  baby !  " 

"  Yes,  she's  kind  enough.  I  don't  see  that  she  neg 
lects  him  ;  but  she  does  everything  as  if  she  were  a  ma 
chine.  So  cold,  so  formal,  so  mechanical.  It's  mere 
duty-work.  There  isn't  a  bit  of  heart  in  anything.  I 
can't  understand  it,  Mrs.  Nelson.  How  can  she  help 
gushing  over  with  love  and  tenderness  ?  I  verily  believe 
her  devoid  of  feeling. 

"  I  can  testify  differently,"  said  the  lady  friend.  Ra 
chel  has  feelings,  and  they  are  warm.  It  was  from  see 
ing  their  exhibition,  that  I  recommended  her  as  nurse. 
At  home  she  has  a  baby-brother  and  I  knew  that  with 
him  "she  is  lavish  of  her  love." 

Ida's  countenance  showed  some  perplexity.  She  did 
not  clearly  comprehend  the  case.  If  Rachel  had  any 
warmth  of  feeling  whatever,  why  was  it  not  called  forth 
by  that  loveliest  babe  her  eyes  had  ever  looked  upon  ? 

"  For  all  I  have  seen  of  her,"  she  replied,  "  I  should 
say  that  she  had  no  well  springs  of  emotion  in  her  na 
ture." 


SETRVICE,  NOT  LOVE.  327 

"  Such  well  springs  are  in  all  hearts,  Ida,"  said  the 
friend.  "But  they  do  not  flow  at  the  touch  of  every 
hand.  Rachel  has  no  personal  interest  in  your  baby. 
She  is  a  nurse  for  hire.  A  hard  necessity,  as  she  no 
doubt  considers  it,  forces  her  away  from  the  care  of  an 
infant  around  whom  love  has  twined  a  thousand  delicate 
fibres  that  draw  upon  her  heart ;  and  she  is  compelled 
to  give  to  your  baby  the  care  she  yearns  to  lavish  on  the 
darling  at  home.  She  will  be  faithful  to  her  duty ;  but 
she  has  no  love  to  spare.  So  I  read  the  case,  Ida. 
Love  is  not  bought  nor  sold.  For  hire  you  may  get 
hands,  but  not  hearts." 

This  was,  to  Ida,  altogether  a  new  and  very  unsatis 
factory  statement  of  the  case.  That  it  involved  the 
truth,  she  could  not  help  perceiving. 

"  The  service,"  she  answered,  "  in  which  there  is  no 
heart  must,  in  the  nature  of  things,  be  defective  at  some 
point.  Duty  work  is  always  hard  work,  and  the  con 
science  which  impels  it  must  sometimes  sleep." 

"  Undoubtedly." 

Ida  mused  for  some  moments. 

"  And  yet,  Mrs.  Nelson,"  she  resumed,  "  I  cannot  but 
feel,  that,  in  so  sweet  a  babe  as  mine,  the  very  sphere 
of  his  innocence  must  draw  towards  it  a  gush  of  tender 
feeling,  unless  the  heart  is  very  cold  and  selfish.  Love 
should  take  the  place  of  conscience." 


"  Would  it,  think  you,  in  your  case,  Ida  ?  " 

"  In  my  case !     I  do  not  see  your  meaning.     How  in 
my  case  ?  " 

"  Can  you  think  out  of  yourself?  " 

"How,  out  of  myself?" 

"  Realize  conditions  in  life  wholly  different  from  those 
which  actually  exist." 

44  In  my  own  case  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

44  Perhaps  I  might,  if  the  effort  were  made." 

"  Then,  imagine  such  a  change  of  circumstances  as 
would  require  you  to  separate  yourself  from  Francis, 
and  become  the  nurse  of  another  babe — just  as  pure 
and  sweet ;  but  not  your  own." 

"  You  shock  me,  Mrs.  Nelson !  I  can't  imagine 
such  a  thing,"  said  Ida. 

44  It  is  because  you  have  imagined  it,  in  a  degree, 
that  you  are  shocked,"  was  the  friend's  reply.  **  Come 
up,  bravely,  Ida,  to  a  fuller  realization  of  the  condition 
I  have  suggested.  When  you  have  done  so,  you  will 
be  able  to  understand  Rachel  —  not  before." 

44 1  understood  just  now,  that  the  babe  she  left  at 
home  was  only  a  brother." 

44  True  ;  yet  was  it  born  into  her  love,  and  dwelt  in 
her  heart  with  almost  the  fullness  of  delight  that  a 
mother  knows.  Thought  and  affection  will' be  ever  re- 


SERVICE,  NOT  LOVE.  329 

turning  to  the  dearer  babe  she  has  left,  even  while  the 
head  of  your  darling,  in  all  its  sweetness  and  innocence, 
lies  pillowed  against  her  bosom.  It  is  not  that  her 
heart  is  cold,  Ida.  But  it  is  scarcely  large  enough  for 
both  these  little  ones.  Now,  go  with  me,  in  imagination. 
Misfortune  has  come,  like  a  blighting  wind,  and  the 
sheltering  vine  that  shaded  you  from  noontide  heats  is 
leafless  and  dead.  The  walls  of  your  palace  have  been 
shaken  to  their  foundations,  and  you  go  forth,  weeping, 
to  seek,  in  the  wide,  \vide  world,  another  and  a  poorer 
home.  Nay,  worse  than  all  this,  he  who  has  kept  even 
the  summer  airs  from  touching  you  too  roughly,  is  taken 
away,  and  you  are  alone  with  your  babe  —  alone,  help 
less  and  friendless.  Such  things  have  been,  Ida  ;  and 
such  things  will  continue  to  be.  Think,  now,  of  leav 
ing  your  own  babe  to  the  care  of  a  sister,  or  a  stranger, 
while  you,  for  hire,  take  another  babe  to  your  arms, 
ministering  to  its  wants,  and  giving  it  the  tender  ser 
vices  your  heart  is  yearning  to  bestow  upon  your  own. 
How  much  heart,  think  you,  Ida,  would  there  be  in 
this  work  ?  Duty  might  be  well  done  —  the  native 
kindness  of  your  disposition  might  compel  attentions  — 
but,  if  love  were  also  demanded,  the  requirement  would 
be  too  great." 

The  friend  ceased,  and  the  young  mother  sat  for  some 
time  in  sober  thought.     She  realized  most  vividly 


830  SERVICE,  NOT  LOVE. 

i 

condition  which  had  been  pictured,  and  her  heart  shud 
dered  at  the  distinct  impression. 

"  What  then  ?  "  she  asked  looking  up,  at  length, 
with  a  shadow  of  a  new  consciousness  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  then  ?  Many  things  are  involved,  Ida.  We 
must  not  hope  to  get  heart-service  for  hire,  nor  forget 
that  love  has  its  own  world  and  its  own  precious  things. 
We  have  our  own  world  of  precious  things,  our  own 
idols,  our  own  lares  and  penates,  and  so  have  others. 
That  self-giving  heroism  which  we  think  so  beautiful  is 
never  bought  nor  sold,  conies  not  through  solicitation 
nor  hire,  but  springs  up  in  the  soul  under  the  inspira 
tion  of  free  and  noble  impulses,  and  makes  life  glowing 
and  beautiful.  Rachel  is  tender,  and  loving  and  true, 
but  you  can  command  her  only  on  the  plane  of  your 
agreement.  She  takes  of  you  money,  and  pays  you 
back  in  formal  service.  She  will  be  patient  and  duti 
ful,  but  while  her  heart  is  with  her  baby  brother,  it 
cannot  be  more  than  dutiful  under  its  new  relation. 
Could  your  heart  be  more  than  this,  Ida  ?  " 

"  I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not."  Ida's  thoughts  were 
busy  with  new  suggestions.  "  I  wish  that  I  had  known 
of  this  before,"  she  said,  with  manifest  concern. 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  done  some  things  differently.  The 
fact  is,  Mrs.  Nelson,  we  are  not  so  much  inclined  as  we 


SERVICE,  NOT  LOVE.  331 

should  be  to  give  our  domestics,  and  persons  in  humble 
circumstances,  credit  for  the  possession  of  like  passions 
with  ourselves.  Rachel  has  been  with  me  over  two 
weeks,  and  only  once  during  that  time  has  she  been 
home." 

"  Only  once  !  " 

"  That  is  all." 

"  Efcs  she  not  asked  to  go  ?  " 

"  Yes,  several  times  ;  but  I  could  not  spare  her  from 
the  baby." 

There  followed  a  silence  of  several  moments.  Mrs. 
Nelson  hesitated  to  utter  the  strong  sentences  that  were 
in  her  mind.  Ida  arose,  and  crossing  the  room,  rang  a 
bell.  To  a  servant  who  answered  the  call,  she  said  : 

« 1  want  Rachel." 

Rachel  soon  appeared  with  the  baby  in  her  arms. 
Her  manner  was,  as  Ida  had  alleged,  cold,  almost  me 
chanical.  There  was  a  dreamy  absence  in  her  face,  a 
dull  abstraction  in  her  eyes.  Seeing  Mrs.  Nelson,  who 
recognized  and  spoke  to  her  kindly,  a  faint  smile  played 
about  her  lips.  But  it  faded  quickly. 

"  Give  me  the  baby,"  said  the  mother,  holding  out 
her  arms.  The  baby  almost  leaped  to  her  loving  breast, 
and  murmured,  in  softest  tones,  its  pleasure.  Rachel, 
on  relinquishing  her  charge,  stood  cold  and  passive. 

"  Would  you  like  to  go  home  for  two  or  three  hours, 
Rachel  ?  "  said  Ida. 


382  SERVICE,  NOT   LOVE. 

Her  face  lighted  .  instantly.  The  statue-like  frame 
seemed  to  quiver  with  feeling. 

"  O,  yes,  ma'am,  very  much,"  she  answered,  in  an 
eager,  fluttering  voice. 

"  I  think  I  can  spare  you,  Rachel.  Baby  will  be 
good.  Don't  stay  later  than  six  o'clock." 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am."  The  girl  turned  quickly 
away  to  hide  the  tears  that  were  springing  to  her  eyes ; 
not,  however,  before  they  were  seen  by  Ida  and  her 
friend. 

"  Do  you  think  her  cold  and  unfeeling?  an  icicle  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Nelson. 

Ida  shook  her  head,  as  she  answered  : 

"  No,  my  friend,  neither  cold  nor  unfeeling,  but  with 
a  woman's  heart  beating,  full-pulsed,  »in  her  bosom. 
What  a  new  world  you  have  opened  to  me,  Mrs.  Nel 
son  !  I  can  hardly  understand  myself.  It  is  plain  to 
me  as  noon-day,  now,  that  love,  before  it  gives  itself  to 
an  object,  must  find  something  of  its  own  therein.  It 
is  too  free  an  element  to  be  bought  or  sold.  Our  mon 
ey  will  not  acquire  it." 

"  And  for  this  reason,  Ida,  a  mother's  arms  should 
oftenest  be  around  her  babe ;  a  mother's  bosom  oftenest 
pillow  its  head.  No  other  heart  can  feel  the  love  you 
bear  your  infant  —  no  other  heart  comprehend  its  gra 
cious  sweetness.  Loving  it  so  tenderly,  should  you  not 


SERVICE,  NOT   LOVE.  333 

give  yourself  to  your  child,  in  all  the  fullness  of  your 
life  ;  letting  others  share  the  precious  charge  only  in  the 
degree  that  health  and  social  obligations  may  require. 
Should  you  not  be  its  chief  nurse  ?  and  Rachel  the  as 
sistant?  The  possession  of  wealth,  and  the  ability 
thence  to  pay  for  service,  cannot  absolve  you  of  duty. 
A  true  mother  will  be  to  her  babe  what  no  other  living 
mortal  can  ;  for  its  life  has  sprung  from  her  life,  and 
there  is  an  interior  communication  between  them,  by 
virtue  of  this  consanguinity  and  likeness  of  soul,  which 
cannot  possibly  exist  between  the  child  and  another. 
Be  much  with  your  babe,  then,  Ida.  If  the  nurse  is 
cold  and  unsympathetic,  don't  leave  him,  for  any  long 
period,  in  so  chilly  an  atmosphere  :  but  into  the  garden 
of  his  tender  mind,  now  ready  for  planting,  sow  good 
seeds  with  your  own  hands  —  lest  an  enemy  plant  tares 
—  and  let  him  dwell  much  in  the  sunshine  of  your 
love,  so  that  these  seeds  may  find  a  quick  vitality." 

"  I  thank  you,  my  friend,"  said  Ida.  "  You  have 
spoken  plainly  but  truly.  Your  words  have  wrought 
conviction.  I  cannot  buy  love  for  my  babe  ;  and  so 
must  keep  him  nearer  to  my  own  heart.  Precious  dar- 
ling!" 


334 


A    RIFT   IN   THE    CLOUD. 


XXXII. 

A  RIFT  IN  THE    CLOUD. 

NDREW  LEE  came  home  at  evening 
from  the  shop  where  he  had  worked 
all  day,  tired,  and  out  of  spirits  ; 
came  home  to  his  wife,  who  was  also 
tired  and  out  of  spirits. 

"  A  smiling  wife,  and  a  cheerful 
home  —  what  a  paradise  it  would 
be !  "  said  Andrew  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  his  eyes  from  the  clouded  face 
of  Mrs.  Lee,  and  sat  down,  with  knitted  brows,  and  a 
moody  aspect. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either.  Mrs.  Lee  was 
getting  supper,  and  she  moved  about  with  a  weary 
step. 

u  Come,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  side  glance  at  her 
husband. 

There  was  invitation  in  the  word  only,  none  in  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Lee. 


A    JUFT   IN    THE    CLOUD.  335 

Andrew  arose  and  went  to  the  table.  He  was  tempt 
ed  to  speak  an  angry  word,  but  controlled  himself,  and 
kept  silence.  He  could  find  no  fault  with  the  chop,  nor 
the  sweet  home-made  bread,  nor  the  fragrant  tea.  They 
would  have  cheered  his  inward  man,  if  there  had  only 
been  a  gleam  of  sunshine  on  the  face  of  his  wife.  He 
noticed  that  she  did  not  eat. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Mary  ?  "  The  words  were  on, 
his  lips,  but  he  did  not  utter  them,  for  the  face  of  his 
wife  looked  so  repellant,  that  he  feared  an  irritating  re 
ply.  And  so,  in  moody  silence,  the  twain  sat  together 
until  Andrew  had  finished  his  supper.  As  he  pushed 
his  chair  back,  his  wife  arose,  and  commenced  clearing 
off  the  table. 

"  This  is  purgatory  !  "  said  Lee  to  himself,  as  he  com 
menced  walking  the  floor  of  their  little  breakfast  room, 
with  his  hands  thrust  desperately  away  down  into  his 
trousers  pockets,  and  his  chin  almost  touching  his  breast. 

After  removing  all  the  dishes,  and  taking  them  into 
the  kitchen,  Mrs.  Lee  spread  a  green  cover  on  the  table, 
and  placing  a  fresh-trimmed  lamp  thereon,  went  out, 
and  shut  the  door  after  her,  leaving  her  husband  alone 
with  his  unpleasant  feelings.  He  took  a  long  deep 
breath  as  she  did  so,  paused  in  his  walk,  stood  still  for 
some  moments,  and  then  drawing  a  paper  from  his  pock 
et,  sat  down  by  the  table,  opened  the  sheet,  and  com- 


336  A   RIFT   IN   THE   CLOUD. 

menced  reading.  Singularly  enough  the  words  upon 
which  his  eyes  rested  were,  "  Praise  your  wife."  They 
rather  tended  to  increase  the  disturbance  of  mind  from 
which  he  was  suffering. 

"  I  should  like  to  find  some  occasion  for  praising 
mine."  How  quickly  his  thoughts  expressed  that  ill- 
natured  sentiment.  But  his  eyes  were  on  the  page  be 
fore  him,  and  he  read  on. 

"  Praise  your  wife,  man  ;  for  pity's  sake,  give  her  a 
little  encouragement ;  it  won't  hurt  her." 

Andrew  Lee  raised  his  eyes  from  the  paper,  and  mut 
tered,  "  Oh,  yes.  That's  all  very  well.  Praise  is 
cheap  enough.  But  praise  her  for  what  ?  For  being 
sullen,  and  making  your  home  the  most  disagreeable 
place  in  the  world  ?  "  His  eye  fell  again  to  the  paper. 

She  has  made  your  home  comfortable,  your  hearth 
bright  and  shining,  your  food  agreeable  ;  for  pity's  sake, 
tell  her  you  thank  her,  if  nothing  more.  She  don't  ex 
pect  it ;  it  will  make  her  eyes  open  wider  than  they 
have  for  ten  years  ;  but  it  will  do  her  good  for  all  that? 
and  you  too." 

It  seemed  to  Andrew  as  if  this  sentence  was  written 
just  for  him,  and  just  for  the  occasion.  It  was  the 
complete  answer  to  his  question,  "  Praise  her  for  what  ?  " 
and  he  felt  it  also  as  a  rebuke.  He  read  no  further, 
for  thought  came  too  busy,  and  in  a  new  direction. 


A   RIFT  IN   THE   CLOUD.  337 

Memory  was  convicting  him  of  injustice  toward  his 
wife.  She  had  always  made  his  home  as  comfortable 
for  him  as  hands  could  make  it,  and  had  he  offered 
the  light  return  of  praise  or  commendation  ?  Had  he 
ever  told  her  of  the  satisfaction  he  had  known,  or  the 
comfort  experienced  ?  He  was  not  able  to  recall  the 
time  or  the  occasion.  As  he  thought  thus,  Mrs.  Lee  came 
in  from  the  kitchen,  and  taking  her  work-basket  from  a 
closet,  placed  it  on  the  table,  and  sitting  down,  without 
speaking,  began  to  sew.  Mr.  Lee  glanced  almost  stealth 
ily  at  the  work  in  her  hands,  and  saw  that  it  was  the 
bosom  of  a  shirt,  which  she  was  stitching  neatly.  He 
knew  that  it  was  for  him  that  she  was  at  work. 

"Praise  your  wife."  The  words  were  before  the 
eyes  of  his  mind,  and  he  could  not  look  away  from 
them.  But  he  was  not  ready  for  this  yet.  He  still 
felt  moody  and  unforgiving.  The  expression  of  his 
wife's  face  he  interpreted  to  mean  ill-nature,  and  with 
ill-nature,  he  had  no  patience.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the 
newspaper  that  lay  spread  out  before  him,  and  he  read 
the  sentence : 

"  A  kind,  cheerful  word,  spoken  in  a  gloomy  home, 
is  like  the  rift  in  a  cloud  that  lets  the  sunshine 
through." 

Lee  struggled  with  himself  a  while  longer.     His  own 

ill-nature  had  to  be  conquered  first ;  his  moody,  accu- 
15 


038  A   RIFT   IN   THE    CLOUD. 

sing  spirit  had  to  be  subdued.  But  he  was  coming 
right,  and  at  last  got  right,  as  to  will.  Next  came  the 
question  as  to  how  he  should  begin.  He  thought  of 
many  things  to  say,  yet  feared  to  say  them,  lest  his 
wife  should  meet  his  advances  with  a  cold  rebuff.  At 
last,  leaning  towards  her,  and  taking  hold  of  the  linen 
bosom  upon  which  she  was  at  work,  he  said,  in  a  voice 
carefully  modulated  with  kindness, 

"  You  are  doing  that  work  very  beautifully,  Mary." 

Mrs.  Lee  made  no  reply.  But  her  husband  did  not 
fail  to  observe  that  she  lost,  almost  instantly,  that  rigid 
erectness  with  which  she  had  been  sitting,  nor  that  the 
motion  of  her  needle  hand  ceased. 

"  My  shirts  are  better  made,  and  whiter  than  those 
of  any  other  man  in  our  shop,"  said  Lee,  encouraged  to 
go  on. 

"  Are  they  ?  "  Mrs.  Lee's  voice  was  low,  and  had  in 
it  a  slight  huskiness.  She  did  not  turn  her  face,  but 
her  husband  saw  that  she  leaned  a  little  towards  him. 
He  had  broken  through  the  ice  of  reserve,  and  all  was 
easy  now.  His  hand  was  among  the  clouds,  and  a  few 
feeble  rays  were  already  struggling  through  the  rift  it 
had  made. 

"  Yes  Mary,"  he  answered,  softly  ;  4<  and  I've  heard 
it  said  more  than  once,  what  a  good  wife  Andrew  Lee 
must  have." 


A    RIFT   IN    THE    CLOUD.  339 

Mrs.  Lee  turned  her  face  towards  her  husband. 
There  was  light  in  it,  and  light  in  her  eye.  But 
there  was  something  in  the  expression  of  the  counte 
nance  that  a  little  puzzled  him. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  "  she  asked,  quite  soberly. 

"  What  a  question  !  "  ejaculated  Andrew  Lee,  start 
ing  up,  and  going  around  to  the  side  of  the  table  where 
his  wife  was  sitting.  "  What  a  question,  Mary  !  "  he 
repeated,  as  he  stood  before  her. 

44  Do  you  ?  "     It  was  all  she  said. 

44  Yes,  darling,"  was  his  warmly-spoken  answer,  and 
he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  "  How  strange  that 
you  should  ask  me  such  a  question !  " 

44  If  you  would  only  tell  me  so  now  and  then,  An 
drew,  it  would  do  me  good."  And  Mrs.  Lee  arose,  and 
leaning  her  face  against  the  manly  breast  of  her  hus 
band,  stood  and  wept. 

What  a  strong  light  broke  in  upon  the  mind  of  An 
drew  Lee.  He  had  never  given  to  his  faithful  wife  even 
the  small  reward  of  praise  for  all  the  loving  interest  she 
had  manifested  daily,  until  doubt  of  his  love  had  enter 
ed  her  soul,  and  made  the  light  around  her  thick  dark 
ness.  No  wonder  that  her  face  grew  clouded,  nor  that 
what  he  considered  moodiness  and  ill-nature  took  pos 
session  of  her  spirit. 

"  You  are  good  and  true,  Mary.     My  own  dear  wife. 


340  A   RIFT  IN   THE   CLOUD. 

I  am  proud  of  you  —  I  love  you  —  and  my  first  desire 
is  for  your  happiness.  Oh,  if  I  could  always  see  your 
face  in  sunshine,  my  home  would  be  the  dearest  place 
on  earth." 

"  How  precious  to  me  are  your  words  of  love  and 
praise,  Andrew,"  said  Mrs.  Lee  smiling  up  through  her 
tears  into  his  face.  "  With  them  in  my  ears,  my  heart 
can  never  lie  in  shadow." 

How  easy  had  been  the  work  for  Andrew  Lee.  He 
had  swept  his  hand  across  the  cloudy  horizon  of  his 
home,  and  now  the  bright  sunshine  was  streaming  down , 
and  flooding  that  home  with  joy  and  beauty. 


SABLES. 


341 


XXXIII. 

SABLES. 

ANE ! " 

The  young  lady  thus  addressed,  slight 
ly  turned  her  head,  but  did  not  respond 
in  words. 

"  Did  you  hear  me,  Jane?  " 
"  Certainly ;    I'm   not  hard   of  hear 
ing,"  was  answered,  in  a  very  undutiful 
way,  considering  the  relation  which  ex 
isted  between  the  two  —  that  of  mother  and  daughter. 

"  I  want  my  needle  book.  You  will  find  it  in  the 
tipper  drawer  of  my  bureau." 

Instead  of  doing  what  her  mother  desired,  Jane  arose, 
her  manner  showing  great  indifference,  and  crossing  the 
apartment,  gave  the  bell  a  quick  jerk. 

"  I  didn't  ask  you  to  ring  for  Ellen,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
lap,  showing  considerable  irritation.  "  My  request  was 
for  you  to  get  my  needle  book." 


842  SABLES. 

And  the  vexed  mother  got  up  hastily,  and  went  out 
to  do  the  little  errand  for  herself.  The  servant  a  mo 
ment  after  came  in. 

44  Did  you  ring,  Miss  Jane  ?  " 

"  Mother  wants  you,  I  believe." 

"  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Over  in  her  room." 

The  young  lady  spoke  in  a  very  ungracious  way. 

Ellen,  who  had  a  weary,  overtasked  look,  ascended 
another  flight  of  stairs,  and  met  Mrs.  Dunlap  at  the 
door  of  her  room. 

"  Did  you  want  me,  Ma'am  ?  " 

"  No,  Ellen  ;  "  her  tone  was  kind. 

"  I  thought  you  rung  for  me  ?  "  said  the  girl. 

"  It  was  a  mistake,  Ellen  ;  and  I'm  sorry  you  were 
brought  all  the  way  up  here  for  nothing,  tired  as  you 
are." 

The  girl  returned  to  her  work,  and  Mrs.  Dunlap  to 
the  sitting-room. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  keep  servants  for,  if  you 
don't  make  them  wait  on  you,"  said  Jane. 

"  When  I  want  their  services,  I  will  call  upon  them," 
replied  the  mother,  with  some  severity  of  manner. 
"  And,  hereafter,  let  it  be  understood  that  no  servant  is 
to  be  called  for  me,  unless  I  ask  to  have  it  done." 

Jane  tossed  her  head  in  a  way  so  like  contempt,  that 


SABLES.  343 

Mrs.  Danlap  was  able,  only  by  an  effort,  to  keep  back 
words  of  angry  reproof.  But  experience  had  taught 
her  that  nothing  of  good  for  her  vain,  proud,  self-willed 
child,  was  to  be  gained  in  angry  contention.  And  so, 
with  tears  of  sadness  and  vexation  dimming  her  eyes, 
she  bent  her  head  low  over  the  work  upon  which  she 
was  engaged. 

Mr.  Edwin  Dunlap,  the  husband  and  father,  was  pres 
ent,  but  during  the  occurrence  of  this  little  scene  had 
not  spoken  a  word,  nor  seemed  to  heed  what  was  pass 
ing.  The  sofa  upon  which  he  sat  stood  at  one  end  of 
the  room,  and  he  was  removed  from  the  lights.  Nei 
ther  his  wife  nor  daughter  noticed  the  depressed,  ab 
stracted  manner  which  a  close  observer  would  have 
marked  as  indicative  of  some  unusual  trouble. 

"  Father  !  "  The  idle  girl  leaned  back  in  the  rock 
ing  chair  that  held  her  almost  useless  person,  and  turn 
ed  her  head  partly  around  towards  the  sofa  on  which 
her  father  was  sitting. 

He  did  not  answer. 

"  Father  !     Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  it  ?  "  The  voice  of  Mr.  Dunlap  was 
neither  clear  nor  steady. 

"  Can't  I  have  sables  this  winter  ?  I've  set  my  heart 
on  it.  I  saw  a  muff  and  tippet  to-day,  for  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars,  that  are  superb.  Just  what  I  want, 
and  must  have." 


344  SABLES. 

Mr.  Dunlap  did  not  reply,  and  so  his  daughter  came 
again  to  the  charge. 

"  You  say  yes,  of  course.  When  shall  I  get  them  ? 
To-morrow  ?  " 

He  was  still  silent. 

"  Very  well.  Silence  gives  consent.  I'll  call  at  the 
store  to-morrow  morning,  and  get  the  money.  I  knew 
you  would  let  me  have  them.  Oh,  but  they  are'  ele 
gant  !  The  handsomest  set  I  have  seen  this  season." 

And  the  young  lady  rocked  herself  with  an  air  of  the 
most  perfect  self-satisfaction. 

But  her  father  had  not  said  a  word.  There  was 
Something  in  his  manner  that  caused  Mrs.  Dunlap  to  let 
her  hands  fall  in  her  lap,  and  look  towards  him  with  an 
expression  of  concern  on  her  face.  He  had  again  re 
lapsed  into  the  state  of  abstraction  from  which  the  re 
marks  of  his  daughter  had  aroused  him,  and  now  sat 
with  his  chin  almost  touching  his  breast.  What  was 
the  picture  in  his  mind  ?  We  will  make  an  effort  to  re 
produce  it. 

A  small  room,  the  floor  covered  with  a  poor  quality 
of  striped  carpet  —  walls  not  even  papered.  A  cherry- 
breakfast  table ;  four  Windsor  chairs ;  a  pair  of  brass 
candlesticks  on  the  mantle-piece ;  and  figured  paper 
blinds  at  the  windows.  This  is  nearly  a  complete 
schedule  of  the  furniture.  The  inmates  are  himself 


SABLES.  345 

and  young  wife.  .He  was  just  returned  from  his  day's 
work  as  porter  in  a  large  drug  store.  The  leaves  of 
the  cherry  breakfast  table  are  spread  open,  and  the  top 
covered  with  a  snowy  table  cloth,  made  white  by  the 
hands  of  his  wife.  The  same  hands  have  prepared 
their  evening  meal ;  and  though  the  tea  service  is  scant 
and  plain,  yet  love  and  hope  are  smiling  above  their 
humble  board,  as  they  sit  together,  and  talk  of  the 
coming  future. 

That  was  the  picture !  But  it  faded  soon,  though 
while  it  remained  distinct,  it  was  vivid  as  life  itself. 
Poor,  industrious,  frugal,  self-reliant,  Mr.  Dunlap  and 
his  wife  had  started  in  the  world  just  twenty  years  be 
fore.  Step  by  step  had  they  ascended  the  ladder  of 
fortune,  until  they  stood  high  up  among  their  fellows. 

Like  pictures  in  a  kaleidoscope,  life-scene  after  life- 
scene  came  and  went,  each  showing  some  marked 
change  in  their  external  condition,  until  wealth  and 
luxury  crowned  their  toil  and  self-denial. 

Mr.  Dunlap  had  been  naturally  proud  of  his  success 
in  life  ;  and  we  will  not  wonder  that,  from  the  eminence 
upon  which  he  stood,  he  sometimes  looked  down  with 
feelings  of  self-confidence  and  self-congratulation. 

But  to-night  self-confidence  and  self-reliance  were 
gone.  He  had  built  his  fortune  on  what  seemed  an  im 
movable  foundation.  But  it  proved  to  be  one  of  sand, 
15* 


346  SABLES. 

yielding  with  strange  and  frightful  suddenness,  and  let 
ting  the  beautiful  edifice  he  had  erected  with  such  care 
and  labor,  sink  into  hopeless  ruin. 

Sables,  at  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  !  No  wonder 
the  unhappy  man,  in  whose  mind  the  certainty  of  his 
ruin,  as  a  merchant,  was  gaining  more  palpable  form 
every  moment,  did  not  reply.  And  no  wonder  the  in 
dolence  and  pride  of  his  indulged  and  spoiled  child,  in 
truding  at  the  moment,  sent  memory  back  to  wipe  the 
dust  from  pictures  of  the  long  ago. 

Was  she  better  than  they  were?  Better  than  the 
faithful  wife,  her  mother,  who  had  walked  in  patient, 
humble  industry  by  his  side  in  the  Spring-time  of  life  ? 
Even  in  his  deep  trouble  of  mind,  the  thought  disturbed, 
and  almost  angered  Mr.  Dunlap.  Not  the  incident  of 
this  evening  alone,  so  far  as  Jane  was  concerned,  now 
fretted  him ;  bnt  many  incidents  which  intruded  them 
selves  like  unwelcome  guests,  involving  such  false  ideas 
of  life,  and  such  miserable  pride  and  vanity,  that  he 
turned,  half  loathing,  from  the  mental  image  of  his 
child. 

"  If  riches  come  at  a  price  like  this,  then  wealth  is  a 
curse  instead  of  a  blessing !  " 

The  thought  seemed  scarcely  his  own,  as  he  gave  it 
involuntary  mental  utterance.  Yet  almost  strange  to 
say,  the  fearful  image  of  misfortune,  which  had  glared 


SABLES.  347 

in  the  face  of  Mr.  Dunlap,  lost  some  of  its  repulsive 
features. 

44  The  stern  discipline  of  misfortune,  I  have  heard  it 
said,  is  always  salutary." 

How  timely  came  the  suggestion.  It  was  an  hour  of 
pain  and  darkness  ;  and  yet  the  hand,  as  of  an  angel, 
was  among  the  clouds. 

"  Jane."  It  was  the  voice  of  Mrs.  Dunlap,  that 
broke  the  silence  of  the  apartment. 

"  Well,  what's  wanted  ?  " 

Jane  was  awakened  from  a  dream  of  vanity  and  tri 
umph.  She  was,  already,  in  imagination,  wearing  the 
sables,  and  eclipsing  certain  young  ladies  whose  pride 
she  wished  to  humble.  They  had  only  mink,  or  martin 
at  best,  and  she  would  hurt  their  eyes  with  sables. 

"  Jane,  I  wish  you  would  go  up  to  the  large  closet 
in  the  third  story  passage,  and  bring  me  a  small  bundle, 
tied  with  a  piece  of  red  cord,  which  lies  on  the  top  shelf." 

44  I'll  ring  for  Ellen,  if  you  desire  it  ? "  answered 
Jane,  without  moving. 

44  When  I  ask  you  to  ring  for  a  servant,  you  can  do 
so,"  said  Mrs.  Dunlap,  with  unconcealed  displeasure. 

44 1  don't  know  what  you  have  servants  for,  if  you 
don't  make  them  wait  on  you,"  retorted  Jane  sharply. 

Mr.  Dunlap  turned  his  ear  and  listened. 


348 


SABLES. 


"  I  wish  you  to  get  me  the  bundle,"  said  Mrs.  Dun- 
lap.  She  spoke  firmly. 

"  If  there  were  no  servants  in  the  house,  it  would  be 
fair  enough  to  call  on  me  to  run  up  and  down  stairs," 
replied  Jane,  in  increasing  ill-nature.  "  But,  as  it  is, 
you  ask  more  than  is  reasonable  ;  I'm  not  a  waiter !  " 

This  was  more  than  Mr.  Dunlap  could  bear.  For 
weeks  he  had  felt  the  storms  of  adverse  circumstances 
bearing  upon  him  with  a  steadily  increasing  violence  ; 
and  with  all  the  coolness  of  a  brave  commander,  he  had 
kept  his  eyes  at  the  point  of  danger,  and  striven  with 
unwearied  skill  to  pass  the  reefs  and  currents  amidst 
which «his  bark  was  struggling.  But  the  events  of  that 
day  had  shown  him  that  skill,  courage,  and  toil  were  of 
no  avail.  The  keel  of  his  goodly  vessel  was  already 
jarring  among  the  breakers,  and  there  was  no  human 
power  that  could  save  her  from  destruction.  Our  mer 
chant  was  no  coward.  In  his  way  up,  he  had  striven 
hard,  but  gained  mental  stamina  in  the  struggle  after 
fortune.  And  now,  when  fortune  wras  ebbing  away 
like  a  swiftly  receding  tide,  he  did  not  shudder  like  a 
weakling.  What  if  his  ship  were  among  the  breakers  ? 
Life  was  yet  safe.  And  something  might  yet  be  recov 
ered  after  the  hull  went  to  pieces  in  the  storm.  And 
so,  he  was  already  nerving  himself  for  the  worst. 


SABLES.  349 

The  last  remark  of  his  daughter  was  more,  we  have 
said,  than  Mr.  Dunlap  could  bear.  It  had  not  been  his 
intention  to  make  known  to  his  family,  for  a  day  or  two 
yet,  the  painful  trials  that  too  surely  awaited  them. 
But  this  little  scene  excited  a  new  train  of  thought,  and 
he  determined  to  speak  out  with  a  plainness  that  would 
leave  no  room  for  misapprehension*.  And  so  he  rose 
from  the  sofa,  and  passed  slowly  towards  the  centre  of 
the  room.  Both  Mrs.  Dunlap  and  Jane  looked  up  into 
his  face,  and  both  half  started  with  surprise  at  its  pale 
ness  and  strange  expression. 

"  Sables  ?  Did  I  hear  aright,  Jane  ?  "  Mr.  Dunlap 
looked  at  his  daughter  in  a  wild  kind  of  way.  There 
was  something  in  his  voice  that  sent  a  shiver  along  her 
nerves. 

"  Yes,  Sables,"  she  answered,  trying  to  speak  in  a 
firm  and  decided  tone. 

"  You  shall  have  them ;  and  they  shall  be  dark  as 
midnight !  " 

Oh,  with  what  a  startling  tone  of  bitterness  were  the 
words  uttered. 

The  face  of  Jane  grew  pale,  and  the  busy  hands  of 
her  mother  fell  motionless  in  her  lap. 

"  Yes,  you  shall  have  sables  ;  but  of  another  kind 
than  those  about  which  you  have  been  so  vainly  dream- 


350  SABLES. 

ing.  Sables  for  the  heart  —  not  for  the  idle  hands  and 
dainty  shoulders." 

Mr.  Dunlap  paused  in  his  speech.  Already  he  was 
conscious  of  having  betrayed  himself  too  far  —  of  hav 
ing  commenced  the  announcement  of  approaching  mis 
fortune  in  a  wrong  and  unmanly  way. 

"  Oh,  Edwin  !  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  And  the 
faithful,  loving,  strong-hearted  wife,  who  had  walked 
ever  erect  by  his  side,  whether  the  sun  shone  or  the  rain 
fell,  sprung  forward  from  her  chair,  and  grasping  his 
arms,  looked  eagerly  in  his  disturbed  face. 

Mr.  Dunlap  was  a  man  of  quick  self-control.  Only 
a  moment  or  two  of  resolute  repression  was  required  to 
calm  the  turbulence  of  feeling  which  had  been  awak 
ened. 

"  Sit  down  again,"  he  said,  in  an  even  tone  ;  and,  as 
he  spoke,  he  drew  his  wife  towards  the  sofa  from  which 
he  had  a  few  moments  before  arisen.  "  Jane,"  he  add 
ed,  turning  towards  his  bewildered  daughter,  over  whose 
white  cheeks  the  tears  were  already  beginning  to  fall, 
"  sit  down  by  your  mother ;  I  have  something  to  say 
that  deeply  concerns  you  both." 

Then  Mr.  Dunlap  took  a  chair,  and  drawing  it  in  front 
of  the  sofa,  sat  down.  There  was  a  brief  struggle  for 
entire  self-possession,  and  then  the  man  was  restored  to 
himself. 


SABLES.  351 

"  Margaret !  "     There  was  a  tenderness  in  the  tones 

^ 
of  Mr.  Dunlap's  voice  that  stirred  emotions  long  quiet 

in  the  bosom  of  his  wife.  "  Margaret,  as  I  sat  here  to 
night,  a  picture  of  our  little  home  —  the  first  in  which 
we  lived  together  —  came  up  from  my  memory,  and 
stood  before  my  eyes,  with  the  distinctness  of  life  itself. 
It  looked  poor  and  humble  ;  but,  Margaret,  there  was  a 
sunny  warmth  in  its  atmosphere.  We  were  happy  — 
very  happy  in  that  little  home.  Have  we  been  happier 

"  O   99 

since  r 

Mrs.  Dunlap  leaned  over  towards  her  husband,  and 
looked  with  earnest  inquiry  into  his  face.  His  question 
was  strange  —  his  manner  strange  —  his  expression 
strange. 

"  Say,  Margaret  —  wife  —  have  we  been  happier 
since  ?  " 

"  Happier  ?  What  do  you  mean,  Edwin  ?  Why  do 
you  ask  the  question  ?  " 

"  Because  I  want  it  answered  in  your  heart !  Think  ! 
Have  we  been  happier  since  ?  " 

"  We  were  very  happy  then,  my  husband." 

"  Though  poor  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Poor,  and  toilers  for  our  daily  bread.  Unknown  — 
unnoticed  —  and  yet  happy  !  " 

"  And  what  of  it,  my  husband  ?     What  of  it  ?  "  ask- 


352  SABLES. 

ed  Mrs.  Dunlap,  with  a  flushing  face.  "Speak  out 
plainly  !  You  frighten  me  by  this  strange  mystery  !  ' ' 

Mr.  Dunlap  smiled.  With  him  the  bitterness  of  the 
trial  had  already  passed.  He  was  now  calm  and  self- 
possessed. 

"  If  we  were  happy  once,  though  poor,  can  we  not  be 
poor  and  happy  again  ?  " 

"  Edwin  !  Husband  !  "  Mrs.  Dunlap's  face  turned 
suddenly  white.  "  If  anything  has  gone  wrong  with 
you,  speak  out  plainly.  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Margaret,  I  know  you"  Then,  after  a  slight 
pause :  "  Things  have  gone  wrong.  The  storm  that 
swept  so  many  ships  upon  a  lee  shore,  and  among  the 
breakers,  did  not  spare  mine.  I  strove  hard  to  bring 
her  safely  into  porf,  but  strove  in  vain.  She  is  even 
now  going  rapidly  to  pieces,  and  we  shall  save  scarcely 
a  timber  from  the  wreck.'' 

"  My  husband  !  Has  it  come  to  this  !  "  And  Mrs. 
Dunlap  laid  her  head,  weeping,  upon  his  breast. 

"  We  have  life,  Margaret,  unsullied  hearts,  and  hope 
still  left.  Courage  !  " 

"  If  you  can  bear  up,  Edwin,  with  the  pressure  of 
this  great  calamity  upon  you,  I  have  no  cause  of  de 
spondency.  I  did  not  think  of  myself,  but  you.  Oh, 
to  have  the  hard  accumulations  of  your  life-time  swept 
away  by  a  single  wave  !  It  is  terrible,  dear  husband  ! 


SABLES.  353 

Trust  in  me  ;  lean  upon  me ;  ask  of  me  all  things,  and 
my  heart  will  spring  to  meet  your  wishes.  Oh,  if  you 
can  but  endure  the  trial  bravely,  it  will  have  few  suffer 
ings  for  me  ! " 

A  wild  tempest  of  weeping  burst  now  from  the 
daughter. 

"  Jane  ;  "  Mrs.  Dunlap  turned  to  her  child.  But 
Jane,  without  replying,  arose  and  went  from  the  room. 
A  silence  of  some  moments  succeeded  her  departure. 
Then,  Mr.  Dunlap  said: 

"  The  ordeal  will  be  a  sad  one  for  our  proud,  indolent 
child.  My  heart  aches  for  her.  But  the  discipline  can 
not  fail  of  good  result.  We  cannot  save  her  from  the 
consequences  of  misfortune." 

"  We  ought  not  to  save  her  if  we  could,"  answered 
the  mother  ;  "  for  there  are  better  qualities  in  her  na 
ture,  which  new  relations  in  life  may  develope.  Wealth 
has  been  a  snare  to  her  feet,  as  it  has  been  a  snare  to  the 
feet  of  thousands.  She  has  grown  up  in  an  atmosphere 
that  has  poisoned  her  blood.  Hereafter,  she  will 
breathe  a  pure  air ;  and  I  trust  to  its  renovating  influ 
ences." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  said  Mr.  Dunlap.  "  I  spoke  to  her 
in  too  great  bitterness  —  with  too  sharp  irony.  Alas  ! 
her  sables  will  be  darker  than  she  dreamed." 


354  SABLES. 

The  mother's  hopeful  prophecy  showed  earlier  signs 
of  fulfillment  than  she  had  anticipated.  A  short  period 
of  time  only  had  elapsed,  after  Jane  had  left  the  apart 
ment,  before  she  returned  again.  Her  face  was  pale, 
but  not  distressed  ;  her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  yet 
were  they  not  sad  eyes,  for  the  light  of  love  was  in 
them.  She  paused  a  moment  at  the  door,  looking  wist 
fully  at  her  parents,  and  then  came  forward  with  quick, 
eager  steps. 

"  Dear  Father  !  "  she  said,  as  she  paused  before  them, 
"  let  me  stand,  also,  by  your  side  in  this  day  of  trou 
ble  !  " 

A  thrill  went  through  the  frame  of  Mr.  Dunlap,  and 
springing  up,  he  caught  Jane  in  his  arms,  and  hugged 
her  to  his  heart  almost  wildly.  Then  holding  her  from 
him,  and  looking  into  her  face  fondly,  he  said : 

"  If  fortune  left  so  precious  a  jewel  in  the  bottom  of 
the  cup  she  had  drugged  with  bitterness,  she  gave  bless 
ing  instead  of  cursing.  Dear  child  !  Upon  the  dark 
ness  of  misfortune,  light  has  arisen." 

And  now  the  strong  man  wept  like  a  woman. 

"  To-morrow  "  came  ;  but  it  did  not  bring  the  sables 
for  Jane  Dunlap.  No,  not  even  for  her  heart ;  for  a 
new  light  had  arisen  there  —  a  light  so  warm  and  radi 
ant  that  it  dispelled  gloom  from  all  the  chambers  of  her 


SABLES^  355 

mind ;  and  not  from  hers  alone,  but  from  those  of  her 
parents  also.  They  were  happier  in  misfortune,  than 
they  had  been  in  the  sunshine  of  prosperity ;  for  that 
only  played  over  the  delusive  surface  of  their  lives. 
But  now,  the  sun  of  love,  breaking  suddenly  through 
the  rent  clouds,  made  their  hearts  warm  and^fruitful. 


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14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWS 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
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LD  21A-60m-10,'65 
(F7763slO)476B 


General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


U.  C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


M119132 


'55 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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